Bones knit by DS Maolalai

-
my feelings lately
are so tender 

all the time – like holding a broken 

arm against my body. 

I cradle them, wrapped 

in their improvised bandage,

torn from the cotton 

of shirts. and how can anyone

grow used to this 

dull aching? I suppose

bones do knit, if you leave them

alone, but after work

and every afternoon

I am like someone 

who's gone down a staircase

to quickly, standing in a daze 

and checking my unsteady

body. and you

are on the sofa 

in the sitting room,

with a thumb holding open 

a paperback, your legs 

cuddled up 

underneath you.

and you look at me, looking,

and say "are you ok?"

and I'm ok.


---

DS Maolalai has been nominated seven times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016) and "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Letters never sent by Beth O'Brien

-
I write you letters, like these ones here.  I focus on my handwriting  so I don’t over-think the words  I’m never going to show you.  I burn a stamp, an envelope, and imagine  flames dancing from inside a postbox, pretending I can smell the ink melting.  Sometimes, I think that’s the only way forward and I wonder if red becomes redder if you burn it?  Every letter I write is a reminder of why  they are letters never sent.  Every letter I never send is a reminder of why  I write you words, like these ones here. --- Beth O’Brien is a third year English Literature student at the University of Birmingham. She has had work published with  Foxglove Journal ,  Nine Muses Poetry , and  BellaOnline Literary Review.  She is a reviewer for Mad Hatter Reviews and Riggwelter Press, and has written articles for  sheswanderful.com   and the  Graduate Recruitment Bureau  blog. 
Read more

Things They Don't Tell You by Barbara O'Donnell

-
That the moment the words terminal diagnosis leave the doctor’s mouth, the grieving starts. Speaking a foreign language to cover for the fact that there is nothing they can do. That the family will fight, even as they know the treatment plan is the best medicine available. That his swallowing reflex will depart before him, making you figure out ways to give him the only thing he begs for, cold juice or whiskey. That you’ll beg the pharmacist to tell you, which is the better mouthwash to use. As if it would make a difference. That you’ll spend those last days, not telling stories or saying how much you love each other. But that he’ll repeatedly throw you out of the room. Make you wonder again, whether to contradict the doctor’s orders ; to give him what he wants. But which will also hasten his demise. So that you can try to eke out the minutes, that the clock tells you are passing, but which seem to stand still inside the close, bare
Read more

Grief Bucket by Claire Walker

-
After the administration was complete – the registering, the funeral bill - they handed me a small metal container. This, they told me, in their clinical-yet-tender way, was a Grief Bucket, Standard Issue. They said I might find it useful from now on, and please could I sign to confirm I understood. At home, I placed the bucket in the middle of the living room floor, carefully removed its cellophane wrap and stared at it for days. Sometime later, I found myself on the sofa, head between my knees, and the bucket proved useful for catching drops; catching the sad plop of grief as it lived up to its name. Friends showed mixed reactions. Some had no time for buckets, were too concerned with their unfair jobs and sore feet to acknowledge this recently acquired possession. Even in its shiny newness. Even in its glare-in-the-winter-sun-ness. Some were more attentive. One reached into a kitchen cupboard, brought her bucket - carewor
Read more