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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.
Steve Saulsbury writes from Maryland’s Eastern Shore. He has been published by Press 53, Rehoboth Beach Reads, Loch Raven Review, The Yard, and others. When not writing, he works at the YMCA. He enjoys fitness, music and spending time with his grandson.
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