Metal Wrist

I jump in without taking a breath, without thinking. The thrashing bodies in front of me were daunting at first glance. But as I watch, as I observe the way the torsos sway and swell together, the way the arms and legs flail about, it all becomes strangely inviting. The man above us screams and wails, his throat hoarse, forehead drenched in sweat, we bathe in the shower that comes down as his head hammers the beats. Slight pains form on my skin from other bruised bodies that whack! against my own. I whack back and I feel things coming out, departing my body, from the bruises that form. Sweat, shouts, adrenaline, anger. I laugh.
Suddenly my body is thrown forward and two masses converge upon the hand I have extended to catch myself. I hear a snap. Looking down, my wrist looks twisted in the red lights.

The doctors ask how it happen and roll their eyes. Kids these days… My sweat covered body shivers when they tell me I will need surgery. I’m going to have a metal plate in my wrist. I smile. Metal in my wrist, how appropriate. The doctors place my arm in the cast, squeezing my shattered bones back into place. “Was it worth it?” they ask.

“Hell yeah, it was.”



This poem was published and recorded in the album/zine Progressions, created by The Horn RVA and Amendment Literary Journal. Link to recording here.


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