Knit together my broken skin, cuts next to scars,
lined up like snags in string, like laddered tights
on shredded skin.
A faded mark the only tar, a hint of the power to heal,
perhaps a lump, new tissue to feel.
Thumbs rest as wrists twist, fingers dance with bandages,
stitches, plaster. A doctor, the director, caster,
with an imperfect model to fix,
his patient, his actor.
© Caitriona Hansen