NewPoetry

Elizabeth Pszczolko

You didn’t know
til the last minute
………..they would
………..stop your heart.

I imagined an engine
lifted with block and tackle
………..but no, rather
………..a bird, window-stunned
………..in your opened chest.

You did not see
the sharp instruments
………..and hands, so many
………..hands, schooled
………..in this new tailoring.

Once done, they took what was left of your blood
in the machine
………..and gave it back to you
………..in a bag
………..dark as a ripe plum.

For your healing
………..sun through tall windows
………..a purring drainage pump
………..drugs to keep your heart
………..from drowning.

You have been kept here
………..by metal and glass
………..black thread.

You have come home with all your angers
and sorrows in place
………..and here we work
………..softening the scars.

*a response to Joanna Klink’s “The Graves…Wind for your sickness”