Reached for the cast iron

Reached for the cast iron,

heavy on the top shelf.

My wrist caught, a quick, sharp

jerk, like a pulled string.

For a half-second, the bone

felt like it was breaking again.

That old, clean snap from years back.

The white plaster, the dull ache

beneath.

It passed. Just a phantom limb

of memory, I guess. The scar

is a pale seam, a whisper.

But the body remembers the trauma,

how it twisted, how it gave.

Before the mending. Before the grave

of pain.