amputation
Sarah Gajkowski-Hill
pieces of you
can come off, too!
away—send them away
like jumping off a swing, mid-rise
or a seashell unhinging.
just tell the pain to go— release it into a flock of birds passing by.
you’ll survive the pressure-coated panic,
the draining bowl—
and you’ll feel so much lighter
one by one the heavy dead
legions flying off from their perches on the end of each arm,
like hothouse flowers, exploding.
riding a snake’s scales, i triumphantly,
slowly, descended the staircase.
heavy-lidded, link by link.
roses in my nightgown falling,
the bandages red with thorn blood
disease and decay milked from every sore
until i shone like a fluted glass.
my hair behind me emblazoned on the air
a shield of petals dampening the dressings.
the wounds, spectacular—
flayed and peeled away: a new bud every time
a tiny hood of freedom.
Sarah Gajkowski-Hill is an Advancement writer at the University of Houston and often contributes music and art reviews to local publications such as the Houston Press and the Free Press Houston. Her poetry has appeared in Relief Journal, Dappled Things, and the Pebble Lake Review. Her poetry deals with the nature of suffering and the chronic illness, scleroderma, she has endured since she was eight years old. She and her husband have three children. They enjoy listening to classic rock and playing with their Labradoodle, Elton.