I’m inside this body that doesn’t work
the way it did before, as if all my angles
were filed down. Fear of falling makes me
consider where I sit, where I step.
Love is pulling me up. Every day
the children call. A gift of sequined silk
and flowers from my brother. You drive me
everywhere, carry and lift. Nights are long,
streetlights shining in through the curtains,
in the drizzle, the neighborhood
turned nineteenth century romantic,
but the surgeon has separated us as though
I’m covered in Post Office labels:
Fragile, Special Handling. There’s a big scar
on my chest, and I’m afraid you might
bang into me with your elbows and knees.
I serve dinner by candlelight,
hoping it’s a temporary separation.