Recovery Time

After therapy. My skeleton, sturdy as a crate, except for the busted section. The contents wilt, until iced; a pack draped on my hip, like a radiation shield. Hand hangs, wedding band blurry. I melt into the table, soak through. The therapist grabs a bucket to catch my tattoo. Blot, she thinks, too late. Into the carpet, to the concrete beneath, seeping outside. A heron waits by the pond. Plucking twigs for a new nest. My gold ring warms to the idea, reassuring my titanium femur.