Hannah Land
OLD WIFE
It’s only an old wives’ tale,
he says, as he mixes oats into a battered
blue pail until they congeal into glue.
When I tell him I can feel my cells splitting
down the middle seam, he offers me small spoonfuls.
I explain how the fire won’t stop
burning my hips, so he builds me an igloo.
Better frost than ash, so we lie in the snow until
my skin goes numb. You should write these
down, I mumble, as I lie
in the fevered womb of our bed.
He sings as he swaddles me
in bubble wrap and old down comforters.
I tell him it will not stop me falling,
just the bruise.
This is all I have, he cries.
I try to hold him but
my hands will not move.