by Sara McDonald


I do not have words for poetry.
I'll simply show you the singed teddy bear I still hold to me dearly.
I do not comprehend.
Idle love strokes don't soothe his skin.
Torched on yesteryear's version of kin.
Missing an arm and captioned to 'feel', he stares blankly at the onlookers and wonders the appeal.
Astonished by the embarrassment or enamored with the peel?
as the flesh pulls back and he steps as he heels
harder
all that's left and the scars will reveal
life
the expenditure, the adventure
and the draw back of tears
although he's drowning in them now
someone punctured the seal

and there are no words for poetry.

So I wear him.

"Feel".


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