Subhaga Crystal Bacon

IS THERE A NOUN CALLED DISRUPTURE?

This morning, as I lay on my bed doing PT,
I was rewarded with a glimpse of marbled sky
under the eaves. I focused on one striation, rupture
of texture. I saw even this little view as a gift—

it holds every walk I’ve taken here, suspended now.
I’m puckered up as for a kiss, but the lips
are on my thigh. Twin scars—Romantic! Oh,
that’s usually stars—embrace my leg. Who

will kiss away the tape, black with lint
though clean. Paula, the tele- nurse responsible
for me says to let it be. The stitches are inside
and will dissolve. I’m held together with dried 

blood and sticky stuff. Don’t cross your legs
or bend more than ninety degrees she says.
I’ve sweated through two undershirts a night
the last three days, weaning myself from a week

of oxycodone. I wake as if weeping through skin,
hair dripping. I’m exuding rivulets. What is it?
So much more than sweat. I chew cannabis sweets
throughout the day. They sawed me open, cut

bone, and pulled out defective hardware meant to fix me.
Then fixed me again. Disrupted my texture:
scalpel, saw blade, drill, wire, suture. Closed.


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