by Isolde ÓBrolcháin Carmody06 Feb 2014
Each evening, I roll up my trouser legs
To undo sundry straps of hook and loop
That stand in lieu of hinges, clamps and pegs
Affixing thigh to shin, and shin to foot.
Tearing off the first, my left foot falls
And hits the floor with a convincing thud.
I loose another limb; its loss recalls
An agony of muscle, bone and blood.
Methodically, I pull myself apart
In bootless striving, seeking some repose,
Or evidence to show, in graphs and charts,
The root of rampant pain, yet it stays closed
To every eye and mind that tries to name
This silent curse that excavates my frame.