Colleen Abel: Lament with Six Stitches

Everyone who looks at you sees
my face in your face

but this is a part of you I do not know:
one of the only parts, this inside of your skin, 

many layers down, flanged with white 
and pulpy-red, exactly as a split fruit.

Less than I ever do I see myself in you now—
blood trail down your shirt, the hole gaping 

between your eyes—I, who am so careful,
who only came close once to slipping

out from this world’s grasp: the day you 
came into it, a noose around your neck

that almost killed us both. And here 
we are again. This time I think: 

I can’t look
, but I have to,
your body tight as the nurses 

reach toward you with sutures, 
as you scream I don’t want this!

All those well-meaners say God
doesn’t give you more than you can bear

(and this is a small burden in
the vastness of suffering)

but you don’t know that yet, your small fists
pinned to your side by the white blanket. 

Kiddo, God gives you whatever God wants to
knowing you have no choice but 

to live through it. What does it mean to be 
unbearable? To choose not to bear? 

I bore you. And when I did, it was a vow
to keep looking: as another woman soothes you

and bends to your sweet face, to watch
the needle flashing in your flesh like a sear

of lightning, the retinal burn like birth,
indelible, unbearable, borne.

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