Something Missing
He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.
He butchers with hammer, saw.
No nightmares, though he says
it’s possible-you could wake
in the middle of the operation,
stirred by loud banging. I advise
him to knock me out good
and proper. We both know the truth,
he will take something from me,
cut flesh away, file bone, move
kneecap, sever nerves, tendons.
He promises to replace pain
with a super joint, a hero.
I come round, crying, smell
of blood and piss. The body knows
muscle and bone are gone.
For months, messages arrive
in my brain, something’s missing.
He does not acknowledge,
it’s part of my DNA now, this loss.
Gail Webb is a Bridport Prize short-listed poet. Gail facilitates creative writing at Maggies Centre and in her local community. Her current work focuses on grief, resilience, climate crisis, human connections to the natural world.
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