Another poem today, in honor of National Poetry Month — what do you (or your characters) know about survivor’s guilt? How do you respond to the final line of the piece? Consider using this as a prompt — take twenty minutes, and follow the words wherever they seem to want you to go.
-Patricia KirkpatrickHow I’ve changed may not be apparent.
I limp. Read and write, make tea at the stoveas I practiced in rehab. Sometimes, like fire,a task overwhelms me. I cry for days, shriekwhen the phone rings. Like a page pulled from flame,I’m singed but intact: I don’t burn down the house.Later, cleared to drive, I did outpatient rehab. Otherslost legs or clutched withered minds in their hands.A man who can’t speak recognized meand held up his finger. I knew he meantOne year since your surgery. Sixteen since his.Guadalupe wishes daily to be the one before. Nobodyis that. Sometimes, like love, the neurons just cross fire.You don’t get everything back.