Anne's Chafed Leg 1959 Poem by Terry Collett

Your leg stump is chafed
where the artificial leg has rubbed.

The nursing nun was applying
something to lessen the soreness.

You sat in a chair staring at her
black cloth covered head, her hands
rubbing gently. You said you hated
the bloody leg, wanted your old leg back,
the one the fecking doctors took off.

She said nothing, her hands rubbing
the ointment in and around. I sat in
a chair nearby, you having insisted I am near.

The stump was red; you muttered words
at the nun's head. She stood and washed
her hands in the small sink. She said to leave
the leg off for a few days for the leg to heal.

I carried your leg and you crutched yourself
from the medical room saying nothing
to the nun drying her hands. I put your leg
in your dormitory and we went out on the lawn
into the morning sunshine. You sat in the white
painted chair and I sat beside you. You talked
of going out the back gate and on to the beach
after lunch. I watched as you rubbed the stump.

The nun had put on a bandaging, now it itched.
I wondered what it felt like to have a leg missing,
but didn't ask, just stared, listening to you curse
and swear, your words, dark birds, flighting in the air.