Is in a clear plastic bag.  On top, a pair of socks

I’m surprised I was wearing. They always crept

down, ended up an annoying mass at my heel.

 

My bra, cut at the straps and in half, useless

As it ever was. I can’t touch my sky-blue shirt

halved through the middle, gutted, like I am now.

 

The EMT warned me that they would cut off my clothes.

The ER doctor told me, before cutting through my jeans

That they had to do this; leave me naked on the table.

 

I didn’t expect them to keep them,

stuff them into a clear bag.  I did not expect

to be weeping now, seeing them. What I wore

 

for comfort, and to protect my body from the cool

November air. My old pair of Levis, patched

at the knee, familiar with the shape of my body.

 

My cotton t-shirt, and over it, my favorite sweater. 

And the old barn jacket I wore when I was pregnant,

large enough and loose enough to fit around my belly.

 

It would be saved—the EMT asked if I want to save it—

I said yes, despite the blood on the front of it, and sat up

Worked it and my sweater off, my left arm and shoulder

 

Not cooperating, hanging by my side, like a discarded

piece of clothing draped over a chair.

I told her, something’s not right with my shoulder,

 

but she was at my right ankle, my boot pointing in a direction

it had never been before. At the bottom of the bag

is that boot, scuffed from the road as I landed.

 

I want my jeans stitched back together.

I want to be clothed again, out on a walk            

to meet my son. I want that November Sunday

 

back. I want to walk again. And when I do, walk again,

I want to walk until all of this fades,

my Frankenstein body clothed in comfort and knowing

 

Some of a life can stitched back together.

Some of it, gone for good. Some of it will always be

stained with blood, the color of November mud.

 

jks, December 23, 2024