Jen Karetnick

APOLOGIA TO MY SCAPULA

 

“We’ll get you through this without surgery,”
the therapist said as he dug his weight
like a shovel into the bent casket
of my arm, burying his fingers high
up in the axilla to force what was
frozen to calve. He unlocked a lymph node,
poisoning more joints with the waste of hope.
But he couldn’t get any muscles to ease.
This rough service I can only defend
because of what you gave to the machines
for the sake of appearances: nothing.
You needed the arthroscope, in the end,
to unknot yourself from these tangled skeins,
defray the cost of what a tearing brings.



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