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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 31, 2016

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Submitted: January 31, 2016



I am lying on the bed,
the nurses are washing me
down and all over,

I feel the wetness
on my skin,

their hands and flannels
move over me,

I see nothing but darkness,
hear their voices
to each other,

chats about this and that,
of a bombing last night
and causalities,
and about that sailor
whom one had met,
and what he wanted to do,
but she saying;
I'm not that
sort ofgirl,

they wash over
my leg stumps gently,
touching softly,
easing the stumps up
and washing them,

and I feel as if
they are whole legs,
but they aren't,
just stump which
hurt and pain me,

how are you, Grace?
one asks me,
her voice kind
and soft spoken,

in pain and depressed,
I say,
wanting to reach out
and feel their hands
and touch their faces,

but don't,
my hands lie idle
beside me
like deserting troops
in midst of battle.

Now they dry me with towels
ever so gently,

one talks to me
of seeing the doctor,
some advice,
some insight,

but I'm elsewhere now,
thinking of Clive
back in 1938,

and that time
we stayed out late
and he stayed
at my place,

and we made love
in my bed,
and like some captive prisoner
(even though dead)
he resides still,
inside my
lying down head.

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