Signs of Character
by Jeanne Lesinski

I hear my voice as if far away,
muffled, like gauze held over a wound,
reading aloud about a creature
whose slashing claws threaten,
as drugged, you doze on the bed,
awaiting the plastic surgeon’s arrival.

I cannot know you just hear murmurs,
not the gory tale you chose prompting
my hate for this novel and author.
 
It is no matter of survival--but beauty,
your lightning smile deformed.
I see again when beyond my reach,
you and Casey went mouth to muzzle
over a blanket, a tug-of-toy,
canines closing on your soft, pursed lips.
 
I cannot know your slow-motion thoughts,
your shocked realization of torn flesh,
as your hand covered a delayed scream.
 
When the surgeon arrives, he greets you;
saying, "I can fix that," he does so,
with deft sutures I refuse to count,
knowing mothers will question, "How many?"
Later I serve ice cream, Darvocet,
hear echoes, "I’d get rid of that dog . . ."
 
I cannot know that you will dry tears,
christen the scars signs of character,
be the first to accept, to forgive.