I'm outside in the wheelchair,
sitting facing the sun,
my blind eyes sense,
but do not see the light.
My leg stumps
are covered by a blanket,
I am tucked up
neat and tight
like a parcel.
Hello, Grace,
a voice says to my right.
It's Guy.
I smell him,
the scent he wears
is overpowering.
Hello, Guy,
how are you?
I hear him take a chair
and sit beside me.
I am fine, but busy,
Hitler's being
a pest in France,
and hush hush work
in progress.
He is silent;
his hand touches mine.
Enough of me,
how are you?
I am unsettled,
I say,
my legs ache
and the stumps are sore.
How are they
treating you?
He asks.
Very well,
but I am impatient,
depressed,
want answers where
there are none,
ask questions,
but know the answers
before I ask.
How do you manage?
He asks.
I am getting there,
slowly, but surely,
I reply.
His hand rubs mine gently.
It reminds me
of Clive's hand on mine
that night he stayed
and we ended up
making love in my bed.
I miss that.
Making love.
Clive dead,
killed in Dunkirk.
How's Donald?
He is busy,
Gus says,
can't say what
he is doing,
hush hush stuff.
I see, I say,
although don't.
Philip is in the States;
he hasn't forgotten you,
Guy says,
he will take you out
for dinner once
he is back.
I can't imagine
going out for dinner;
people watching me
being wheeled into
a restaurant with no legs
and blind,
them staring,
and me unable to know
if they are looking
and what they
are wondering.
Guy talks on,
but I am
thinking of Clive,
of his kisses,
of his body
against mine,
seeing it in my mind,
even though
I am blind.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
I'm outside in the wheelchair,
sitting facing the sun,
my blind eyes sense,
but do not see the light.
My leg stumps
are covered by a blanket,
I am tucked up
neat and tight
like a parcel.
Hello, Grace,
a voice says to my right.
It's Guy.
I smell him,
the scent he wears
is overpowering.
Hello, Guy,
how are you?
I hear him take a chair
and sit beside me.
I am fine, but busy,
Hitler's being
a pest in France,
and hush hush work
in progress.
He is silent;
his hand touches mine.
Enough of me,
how are you?
I am unsettled,
I say,
my legs ache
and the stumps are sore.
How are they
treating you?
He asks.
Very well,
but I am impatient,
depressed,
want answers where
there are none,
ask questions,
but know the answers
before I ask.
How do you manage?
He asks.
I am getting there,
slowly, but surely,
I reply.
His hand rubs mine gently.
It reminds me
of Clive's hand on mine
that night he stayed
and we ended up
making love in my bed.
I miss that.
Making love.
Clive dead,
killed in Dunkirk.
How's Donald?
He is busy,
Gus says,
can't say what
he is doing,
hush hush stuff.
I see, I say,
although don't.
Philip is in the States;
he hasn't forgotten you,
Guy says,
he will take you out
for dinner once
he is back.
I can't imagine
going out for dinner;
people watching me
being wheeled into
a restaurant with no legs
and blind,
them staring,
and me unable to know
if they are looking
and what they
are wondering.
Guy talks on,
but I am
thinking of Clive,
of his kisses,
of his body
against mine,
seeing it in my mind,
even though
I am blind.
