Mary Helen Porter

Born

 

Tug the rope

Of the fibers pulling,

Detaching from itself

Hold tight.

A rope dwindling

Pricking my fingers raw.

A fire erupts in my palm,

Blistered by dawn.

They find scissors

To cut the rope.

I hear it so I can’t

Cope.

Now two

Lay under

Scalpels

And anesthesia.