Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
The two nurses strip me off for a blanket bath, said Grace, I lay here on the bed, my blind eyes staring at blackness. They lift each leg stump and wash them gently and with care; they wash me where only mother ever touched when I was a child; they wash me with the warm water all over, talking between themselves; they talk of the bombing the night before, of the people brought in from the raid; of the many dead who lay in the mortuary now. One talks of her night out with her boyfriend home on leave, the other asks questions; I fail to listen to. I think of Clive and the last time we made love in my bed before he went off to fight and was killed at Dunkirk, and the night my house was bombed and my maid was killed and I lost my legs and sight and thrown into this dark night. They dry me gently and dress my stumps again and the put on my nightie. They have gone and I lay here musing on Clive and the man Philip who came with Guy and who talked to me and promised to take me out. Why would he want to go out with a legless, blind woman? And where would we go? He never said and I may never know.
0
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Bathing Grace 1940
The two nurses strip me off for a blanket bath, said Grace, I lay here on the bed, my blind eyes staring at blackness. They lift each leg stump and wash them gently and with care; they wash me where only mother ever touched when I was a child; they wash me with the warm water all over, talking between themselves; they talk of the bombing the night before, of the people brought in from the raid; of the many dead who lay in the mortuary now. One talks of her night out with her boyfriend home on leave, the other asks questions; I fail to listen to. I think of Clive and the last time we made love in my bed before he went off to fight and was killed at Dunkirk, and the night my house was bombed and my maid was killed and I lost my legs and sight and thrown into this dark night. They dry me gently and dress my stumps again and the put on my nightie. They have gone and I lay here musing on Clive and the man Philip who came with Guy and who talked to me and promised to take me out. Why would he want to go out with a legless, blind woman? And where would we go? He never said and I may never know.
A blind? Legless, woman in 1940 London
TerryCollett
Written by
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem