Sophie Cornwell
My Surgeon TElls Me There is a Chance I'll Lose my Foot but to Not Worry Yet
So I don’t try to memorize the pressure drive home,
of my Hyundai’s floorboards beneath
my unhealing bone
on the
toes tapping to the soundtrack
of Hadestown.
And I don’t shuffle my socked feet
across the carpet to my bed,
feeling static’s ghostly fingers
pull my hair to the ceiling
like I’m standing atop
a mountain waiting for lightning to strike.
I don’t even pull my too-thin quilt over my head,
curl into a fetus in the dark,
and scroll for hours—reading
about bone death and phantom pains.
I don’t ask God I’ve been given a body
why
that’s never been able to heal itself.
A body that’s only ever known
how to break.
Doing any of this would be irrational,
because the surgeon told me to not worry yet.
Because his confidence is full
of mights and maybes and ideallys
that spill into my dreams.
My dreams where I’m flying,
reaching, reaching, reaching
just a little bit higher.
Just to see if the final layer of the atmosphere
feels like being wrapped in cool silk
or dipped in warm milk.
Because, I think I might, maybe, ideallymy body,
need to drown myself
in the vastness of outer space
so just once,
can stop breaking under gravity’s fist.
Instagram: @s.o.p.h.i.e_c.o.r.n.w.e.l.l
