I thank him who set my splintered bone
and gave life back to flesh around my thumb
that I might once more hold hands with the world.
Who, with his dexterous hands and whetted eye,
gave back the fulcrum to my hand
so it could once more spin and twirl
and summon forth, perhaps, a swirl
of words that glide and curl
like fragrance from some unseen flower.
.. . . .Three years have passed now
.. . . .since the accident, three years
.. . . .since he with so much care reset
.. . . .those broken shards of thumb,
.. . . .the injury seems like a dream of day.
.. . . .So though I seldom think of him
.. . . .(for who holds memory in a thumb?),
.. . . .I sometimes spread and look unthinkingly
.. . . .upon the webbing of my hand
.. . . .where, within the vein that rivers down
.. . . .between the index and the thumb,
.. . . .I see once more the gratitude I owe to him.
Editor’s Note: Personification is used with a light touch in this poem, complimenting the imagery that allows the reader to experience a difficult injury from the flip side of trauma: gratitude for what is instead of what might have been.
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