He leans back against his desk and asks
if, while he has me under, it'd be worth
taking care of that leg, too, pointing to it.
He is not talking to me, but my mother.
I'd rather not make this a bigger deal
than it already is, so I say don't bother,
to her, who relays this across to the doctor.

The ceiling floods my head with whiteness.
Into the corner of my left eye, the television
spits. They've attached weights to my neck
and ankles, suspended them over both ends
of the bed. I will be like this for a week.
'Til I leave, in a brace, with a spine-length
scar, I have only one red button to press.

The door is locked. The taps are turned on.
Propped on a plastic chair, I am made wet
and clean by a nurse, because I'm incapable
of doing it myself. As she leans over me,
the curtain of her uniform opens an inch,
briefly exposing a hint of the sensitive flesh
of our different positions, how cold it can be.

These are stones on the soft bed of thought.
Swept towards a broader river, we sort and
repeat the memories beneath. They take
the shape of us, and change how we move.
There is no-one left to blame now, no way
to isolate the intention suffering implies,
only these frames the future tries to break
free from.