One fragment I recall is the story
Of how as a child you fell down on gravel
And a stone became embedded in your knee.
In the following days your child's skin
Laid itself over the wound and the stone remained.
We lived in a world of dust and books, without people,
When you told me this and I remember
Wanting to ask you why you were telling me
This strange little fragment pulled out
Of your strange little head with its missing afternoon
(How did you walk to the hospital from the scene of the
accident?).
Nevertheless, I appreciated the visual aid:
The way you pulled up your dress, pointed and said
"There".
I think I said "Hmm, lovely" or something,
Tried to focus and worried in case
We were going to swap stories about wounds
(But we didn't: that was for another day and with someone
else).
Instead you mentioned that your husband
Had become increasingly irritated by this tiny stone
And talked often about how one night as you sleep
He might just cut it out,
For better or for worse.
I know I'm making this unclear, probably losing you,
But then I've the genuine loss of you to contend with.
It's just this: I was with you for a year
In a world of dust and books, without people.
With quiet ways and during working hours
I mapped your other wounds, the secret ones
Left by time and sin; came, in a way, to love you.
But now everything's changed:
There's a wound growing inside you which you believe to
be a flower
And there's a flower growing inside you which I think is
a wound.
