On his busted couch
he shows me the remains
of his life of violence.
When his wrist hit
the windshield he said
he felt nothing save for
the protrusion, quick as

a fencepost thrown into
a churning wind. Two
faded pink scars mark
where the shards entered him.
The first claims the cut
that sang like hell when
the good doctor pulled

the stitches out. The second
tells where a different man
noticed and removed a splinter
hidden by his tendon for
four years. Like his back
story, the thing forced
its own healing.

Copyright © 2005 Donora Hillard

Donora Hillard's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including HazMat Review, The Pedestal Magazine, and Thorny Locust. She lives in northeastern Pennsylvania, where she holds an Assistantship in Creative Writing at Wilkes University.