NO MORE FACES 1940

A WOMAN IN 1940 IN A LONDON HOSPITAL WITH BLINDNESS AND LEGLESS

A nurse wheels me out
into the sun and fresh air;
I feel it on my face,
sense the sunlight
on my blinded eyes,
darkness unenlightened.

If you need me Grace,
just call out,
the nurse says,
and is gone off back
to the hospital ward.

I look around me
seeing nothing,
but trying to give
the impression that I can,
that I am not blind.

I listen intensely,
never thought
I would ever listen
so much to every sound
that came my way.

I am wrapped in a blanket;
my leg stumps
well bandaged.

I reach down
with my right hand,
feeling where the legs end;
feel a shock each time
that I have become
shorter than ever
after the bomb fell
and that was it:
my life changed forever,
blind and legless.

I sit and put my hand
back in my lap.

Voices come from nearby,
other patients maybe,
nurses or doctors or visitors.

I feel a prisoner
of my disabilities;
locked in my body;
unable to go to the loo
or bathroom unaided;
unable to see the beauty
of the flowers
in the grounds.

When the nurses
blanket bathed me
this morning it felt
oddly sensual:
hands moving
over my body,
fingers washing
between my own fingers,
my leg stumps lifted
and cleaned
and re-bandaged gently;
voices between them
in conversation,;
my body tingling
by the touches.

I recalled Clive in 1938
moving his hands over me
that evening he stayed
and we made love;
his voice in my ear,
his lips on mine,
his fingers touching me
all over and in soft places.

Now all gone,
no kisses,
he dead,
no more faces.