Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-eight
Summer 2015
 
An End to Something
Theodore Worozbyt

Something beautiful, the nurse-specialist said (saying goodbye) in the mirror, to me. My hand shook itself. The upper right corner report shrinks the locus of infection. Always will be: scars hidden and the positive throb of the tocsin. Several letters arrive, or didn’t. I frame them and take them down; I was quick to mention. I said to the soft purple graft beside my foot, and to a pair of avuncular and fidgeting contraptions, give it a rest. It makes a peep when I step on that soft toy. I will try, I say, backing down the hall, almost stumbling, not quite wanting what I had almost given up on. I admitted myself, as once into a broken window I was admitted. There won’t be any need to take that test, ever again.


About Theodore Worozbyt

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