Sightless Washdown 1940 Poem by Terry Collett

Sightless,
I use my other
four senses to guide me
through the remaining world
about me.

I smell the disinfect
of the hospital ward,
I hear the passing
nurses and doctors,
and the cries and chatter
of other patients.

I feel with my fingers
where my stumps begin
and my legs end.

I taste the warmness
of the cup of tea
they brought me.

I hear talk of invasion
by Nazi troops;
I hear music
of a dance band
and someone singing.

Someone
is washing me
in the bed;
towels are under me
and over me;
I feel like a child again;
hands wash my stumps,
clean my body,
soap and rinse my breasts.

This darkness
behind my eyes
depresses me.

Will I walk again?
I ask at random.

Of course, Grace,
once your stumps
are healed sufficiently
and we can
measure you up,
the voice says,
not stopping
her work,
her voice dry as sand.

In my blindness
I recall Clive
touching me
where the nurse touches;
his hands there,
his lips kissing me
as we made love
before he left
for war and battle
and death.

I am being dried
by a towel
a hand feels along
my skin to see
how dry I am.

Clive has gone
and all I can think
is damn.