The Cast

The sheet, the doctor, the neighbor, they all tell me to hold my hand above my heart. High in the air, they tell me. My fingers frost like testicles at night. The cast, heavy ice on bone branch, is not as easy to hold high. It wants to pull my hand down toward the ground where both can rest. A winter storm taps stilettos on the glass. Barely, blindly, I pull this cover over my head and brave the night. Slowly, warming, my arm creeps closer to the beating heart mother, and like a sudden gust, I'm forced to push it back out on snowy sheets. Nature must first decide, while man cowers inside.
Today we will cut open this fruit and mend the bone, the first sunny day. Then, back to winter white hand.