The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve....
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms,
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame;
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh.
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.
The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms,
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame;
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh.
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.
The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).
