Sore Wounds 1940 Poem by Terry Collett

Comment allez-vous?
Someone asks me in French.

I am in pain, I reply
in my remembered
schoolgirl French,
facing the area
the voice comes from,
searching out
with my right hand,
my blind eyes stare,
wondering who was there.

Je suis ici pour
voir vos blessures,
she says.

I feel her hand,
small and soft.

She holds my hand gently.

You are here
for my wounds?
I say, wondering
if I heard her correctly,
my French not as
good as hers.

Oui,
she says.

She lets go
of my hand,
and lifts up
my nightgown,
and feels my leg stumps,
her fingers touching
as she moves.

She undoes
the bandages slowly,
unwrapping each leg stump,
then I sense the air,
and feel her fingers
on my skin.

I recall Clive
touching me there,
his fingers moving
my thighs,
his kisses there.

Ils sont la guérison,
she says.

They are healing?
I say,
unable to see,
but they still hurt,
I utter
in my poor French.

La douleur va persister
pendant un certain temps,
she says,
rubbing gently over
the area where
the wounds are.

How long will
they pain me?
I say.

She says it will be
a while, and then
re-wraps the bandages,
and pulls down
my nightgown.

Then she goes.

I hear voices
over the way,
a bell rings.

I lie there,
wondering what
will happen next,
remembering Clive
making love to me
that last time
before he left for War.

I feel with my fingers,
the wounds,
aching,
sore.