My right arm casted, this poem has little choice

but to wend, flesh-bare and wan through Percocet

dreams where bones severed, coalesce. Like Neolithic

ground offering up the remains of an infant

arranged in its mother's embrace, pain is less than

the salient need to signal a presence, compassion,

a quest for truth elusive as the tickle I can’t reach. At best

I am less garrulous—forced, left-handed, to peck images

clean as children in the woods, winter's end, waiting

their turn at a blackened pan to scoop maple-drenched

snow. Ice beneath the surface. Cutting through bone

a harbour entrance for shards that prick and abrade

until we elevate the limb, excavate the fragment

that yields a name.