Recovery by Cheryl Pearson

Abegail Morley


By the time I have learned to handle the blade
of my young body, the blade has been dulled.
As my grandmother told me, Youth is wasted
on the young. I would tell her now that truth is,
too. I didn’t recognise the sound. Do you know
how much light an ice cap holds? How much
weight? The same for a body. If I could melt,
what light. If I could surrender, a flood. Again,
I am trying to convert myself, to fall through glass
without sound. You’d think I would know better
by now. I learned on the wards how to use my
tongue, to say no without employing my bones
as messengers. And yet. And yet. When it seems
the world is going mad, I go without dinner, take
my coffee black. I dip a toe in the old water. They
teach you to dial the voices…

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