Nothing Broken

The hood of my car closed five years ago

on my left hand. January in Ottawa is cold enough.

I was preserved. Does this hurt?

the doctor asked two hours later.



We agreed the nerve damage helped.

I said it was a little funny and she smiled.

Maybe I have a reputation. I am known,

perhaps, for my hyperbole, but people moaned,



screamed and cried from hidden injuries.

Their bodies were smooth under clean sheets.

This is awkward, I thought. No broken bones

to show my neighbour, after the anxious drive,



the dinner left on the stove. I have

no money to pay for the gas, just two

normal hands, one numb and washed,

a bloody dishrag in the other.

© Sean Johnston