Out of My Skin

A Matter of Scale

The paramedic asked me to rate my pain
on a scale of zero to ten
stabbing, throbbing, the numb of shock —
pain is pain, but then
I saw the face of the beautiful child,
her shoulders, arms, her lifeless frame,
skin stretched tight, transparent thin
over death soon to come from hunger
in her mother’s arms,
flies in the corners of tearless eyes.

My bones out of place, shivering with cold
on a hot summer’s day
my pain perhaps an eight, but then
I heard screams from war zones on the news
and saw a man, panic on his face,
running from the horror, seeking escape —
a boy of maybe nine or ten,
legs that once kicked a soccer ball in fun,
in his father’s arms,
a bloody bundle, twisted and torn.

White, air-conditioned nausea, each move
a cold jab that evaporates
with the drip, drip of the I-V, but then
the hot dust of the camp blew in my eyes,
not enough guns to push away the fear,
no past, no present, no future,
youth raped with the lust of empty cries,
no name, no home, no pride,
no comforting arms for the refugee —
just a hollow bowl, a forgotten life.

The paramedic asked me to rate my pain
on a scale of zero to ten.

 

© 2008 Richard Sidy

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