Knuckle Head
It would only be hours later leaving with a bandaged hand
feeling sorry for myself in a fair bit of pain that
I would remember her frost deformed fingers
conveying maternal tenderness
in everything.
It’s not often that I write,
something happened, prompting this sharing:
something I've lost that once seemed important
but may be not such a big deal
beside the image of her working around and through it all––
life, without any sight at all.
Maybe I’m just a slow learner, but
Smart as I am, I took the moment, collapsed the ladder
Dumb as I am, I lost my grip, let it slide
rush into space too small for us both
Something had to give, and
Flesh will always yield to steel, every time.
Looking on astonished
Mind refusing to receive the rich deep pain
Conveyed by sight, by hand, by half
Chewed carrot of a red stubbed finger
Presenting itself to treatment;
Hours later, hurt like the blazes
Could pull some four lettered prayer
Through all those working days, tasks
compelling me without care
for my sorry feelings.
She’s gone some long years now
Her life still teaching and still
I slowly learn, recall
her uncomplaining spirit,
her vision, triumphant over all;
Well slap me silly, my little loss fades
Give me this finger, healing nicely––
It just stops at the first knuckle, is all.
About this: This is my rendition of a story my brother, Jon Knight , wrote about a work accident, and his emotional journey of re-discovery that followed it. The injury, the words, the thoughts, the grace in the face of pain and loss, the poetry, are all his own.
I appreciate his consent to my including his story in this form.