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Feb 2016
I am lying flat on the bed,
a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps,
her hands are smooth,
fingers skillful.

Another nurse
is beside me;
IΒ Β can hear
their conversation
between each other.

She died in the night,
the nurse nearby says,
terrible wounds,
didn't think she
would survive.

I think of Jean
and how she had
just gone off after
our row yesterday.

Her children were dead
at the scene;
the house took a direct hit
in last night's blitz,
the nurse nearby says.

It is tragic children
being killed like that,
the nurse rubbing
my leg stumps says.

I stare at the area
of their voices as if
I could see,
but I see nothing,
darkness where voices
come from.

My hands lie dormant
by my sides.

It is oddly sensual
this rubbing,
painful but sensual,
as if the mixture
of pain and rubbing
combined to make it
seem sensual.

I remember Clive
touching me the last time,
his hands moving
between my legs
and kissing my feet
and even now
I sense his kisses.

The last time
we made love.

There between me
he lay.

Then, he was gone
and died at Dunkirk.

The reality shocks me
and I move,
Steady , Grace,
steady, am I hurting you?
the nurse says,
holding my leg stumps.

I say,
no just a memory.

She rubs again,
the sensuality fighting
with the pain.
Terry Collett
Written by
Terry Collett  72/M/England
   Martin Lethe and ---
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