New Slate



New Slate


 Bam–there it was:

the decision to break my face right.

Bone shattering

teeth chattering

my head in splinters.


Yes, there it was:

my second 20 years 

on a clean plate/slate.

Before, it had always been draped

with some tantalizing tidbit.


The slate was steely clear

like surgical knife to jaw.

A medical cut

was needed in my second life

to graft a third one.


God, it was freeing_

God, it was ghastly_

no jaw, no country, no limits.

The rawness was real:

I was moving on.


I smelled alcohol antiseptic,

dust from cleaning...

the exhaustion of healing,

packing, giving away,

and the sweetness of anticipation.


I relive the stickiness 

of duck tape on my fingers

while watching the reflection

of lopsided lips

in the mirror.


But I am here,

whole.

The change is made

and the plate

is slatey like the sea.



Foto: <a href="https://pixabay.com/it/users/flyupmike-5768/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=51699">Michael</a> da <a href="https://pixabay.com/it//?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=51699">Pixabay</a>


Text: Kristen Mastromarchi




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