Plaster Memory

My arm, this morning, a dull throb.

It pulled me back, into the white.

That suffocating, itchy blob,

that claimed my limb, day and night.

The plaster, heavy, like a stone,

the way it made my shoulder sag.

Fingers, alien, alone,

waiting for the doctor's drag.

I'd tap the shell, a hollow sound.

My skin beneath, a landscape lost.

Broken, tethered to the ground.

Everything, at such a cost.

It wasn't just the bone that broke.

It was the silence, stretching wide.

And every nerve, that then awoke,

to uselessness, with nowhere to hide.