Just because we survived
doesn't mean we don’t hurt.
Maybe we aren’t meant to be
whole. Maybe we lose pieces
of ourselves, ears and arms
and toes littering time’s road like breadcrumbs.
Rushing to gather found appendages
to see if they fit. Hand holding hand, jamming
a degloved humerus to scapula, draping foraged skin
over exposed ribs, hoping for a matching shape. Cells mutated,
discarded, replaced each day, longing
to belong. And for the first time
in all the times we’ve connected,
perhaps we will heal, together.
Mitchell Solomon is a Jewish writer with work appearing or forthcoming in The Healing Muse, The West Review, Analogies & Allegories, Near Window, Pages Penned in Pandemic, and GLITCHWORDS. He lives in San Francisco.