This is What the Wound Does

by Florence Weinberger

You slow
you live your life on a molecular level
each joule of pain enhanced
like nerve endings through the lens of a microscope
the dross of the outside world
distanced like neuropathic toes.

On those tapered mornings
that can be gray as uncarded wool
you pull on your compression stockings
take measure of only your pulse and heartbeat
and carefully count each pill into its small slot.

Sleep can be deep or it can morph into
absence, your own, even the buzz of a fly.

Sometimes the wind rattles the shutters
and you are reminded of the drummers
on the beach last summer.

Sometimes a letter comes, a knock on the door.
A tincture of goodness left on the doorstep.
Two people bring salad, napkins and water.

You answer the phone.
It’s a little like leaving Egypt.