Forgive

The scars started as blisters, then sores that cratered deep
into her calves and shinbone, both legs trying to shed the fever,
and the medicine needed to save a life,
and once the fever left, the holes that could not be stitched,
healed, her body reset, first with scabs that rose higher
than the skin, then new jig-sawed tissue,
stronger than before, much whiter than the rest,
tighter than her widened belly that still carried the reminder,
the weight and slackness, empty like the room,
that what a cough took was not only flesh but her interloper,
the boy, who shared her body for six months,
just long enough to be named,
who she heard once in her delirium say—
mother, put your hand on the wall and walk.

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Michael Foran (he) lives in Ware, Massachusetts, and teaches Saturday morning Literature classes at Holyoke Community College. His most recent poems have appeared in Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors, volume 4, Driftwood Press, Ocotillo Review and Rumble Fish Quarterly.