Issue 8 | Winter 2011


runs from the middle
of my head, splits
into different paths
on my forehead where
so much of the work
of piecing together occurred.
I was a grown woman
with both my parents
around me as if I was
a child again as the doctor
worked post-car crash
sewing and knotting
and picking out turf and
ground from where
I met the ground
as if to root there.
There it is—a path
I can trace my fingers on
now that I am without them—
top to side to side to bottom—
as if the journey
is finished and I am old.

Filed under: Poetry