Having an affair, within the intimacy
of a personal physical wound.
There is so much ongoing
as background awareness.
Even in foreground absence from sight,
lots of mindful alarm and attention.
Dressings off.
Careful visual scrutiny.
Tenderness with eyes and touch.
Cleanliness into curious caress.
That we now share in washcloths of sorts,
sterile cleanse,
ointments applied,
and secured coverage as dressings.
The pains, sometimes subtle,
often definite, articulate and loud.
There is a constant shift, though muted,
of conversation and feelings,
between wound itself and self,
and from these shared dialogues,
wound through nerves
and these compared states
give ongoing appearances to self.
The tendings, protocols,
little steps of shared towards wellness.
Stark remembrance of the first time
we impactfully met.
What this wound has
further brought out in me.
Strange bedfellows but true,
we go to sleep and wake together.
For now, within this intimacy,
it is, in its miniscule privacy,
but subtle heirarchical inward way,
like being in the operatives
of having an affair.
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