When they carted me in here I was in
shock. The morphine doesn’t kill
the pain, it just numbs my body.
Most of my blood
had fallen out of me, hopefully
extracting the demons
as it poured like thick wine
from my veins. My body
sobers up as your soft hand finds
my cold, carefully packaged hand. I can almost feel
the gentle friction of our fingerprints
like an old bow against new strings.

Yes, I know my fingernails
are in a terrible state. Feel free
to trim them. I know your penchant
for well kempt hands. For a moment
just hold my hand and consider
visiting me here in the land of disinfected faces.
The people who care for me are wrapped
in thin layers of plastic. They smell of antiseptic. They look
like I used to feel. There was

a large knife and bubble wrap, the rest of procedure
is a television screen coated in Vaseline.
I am healing faster than the doctors
had predicted. Sure, I’ll never clap again
but the reasons for applause have dwindled
to regular bowel movements. My missing palm
and knuckle will haunt my body
for the rest of my life. I would rather be
my own ghost.

I can tell you what fits in a bread box and costs
$16.52 to overnight across the country.
I said I would never play the violin again. I said
you would take the most important piece of me
if you ever left me. You weren’t aware
it wasn’t my heart.

-Joseph Kerschbaum