Abstract
This poem describes how minor injuries to my body repeatedly called to my mind the devastating torture experienced by a man who is seeking asylum in the USA.
With the new razor-sharp peelerI quickly shave off the tough waxy flaps of turnip peelUntil I pull away the tough waxy nail of my left fourth finger.I feel a flicker of the shadow of T's painWhen they pulled off his right second toenail in Uganda.I cry out when the pad of my right fourth fingerTouches the door of the woodstove as I push a big log in. The aloe gel I apply soothes the second-degree blister that fades in 2 days. They applied a hot metal plate to the back of T's right handLeaving a shiny scar of third-degree remembrance. The trainer binds an elastic strap around each ankleFor me to press backwards to strengthen my glutes. The elastic binds tightly and hurts with each movement. They made T hang from a strap around his left ankle with his faceOver a pan of snakes. I am glad not to share those nightmares.I do not ruminate on T's account;just living in my body recalls the work,Work I choose to do for him, for others out there,Who, having survived, are trying to live in their bodies.
Notes
This article was externally peer reviewed.
Funding: None.
Conflict of interest: None.
- Received for publication February 3, 2020.
- Accepted for publication May 18, 2020.
