I haven’t been here for a while. It turns out that recovering from a broken wrist feels like a full-time job. On top of my full-time job. So I’ve had little energy for writing. This poured out of me a couple of days ago, though, as I read and exercised my hand in the early-morning hours.

Stretch

My fingers, crippled, cripple me.
I attach a metallic claw that will stretch the hand,
the wrist,
to repair me.

(Or so the doctors say – the details are left sketchy).

Teal-blue titanium, this is where the space age meets medieval torture.
Modern healing meets the Rack.

I put my hand in, turn the knobs,
bend first my fingers, then my wrist.

It’s all angles and curves, and math.
(Once upon a time, when we executed people by hanging, that was all math, too.)
I check for pain after five minutes,
then five minutes more,
then (rinse and repeat) again till I reach 30.
Four times a day, 1 hour between, two directions.

Flex, then extend.
Tomorrow the reverse: extend, then flex.

No end in sight.

What will stretch my spirit?