Wretches by Bridget Lowe (ENFp)



In the lamplight afforded us
by a generous donor who wished
to remain anonymous, we sat
in the front row, eager to see
the hand come down and hover over
the infant flesh, squeeze
the doughy knees. Please, we asked,
press the palm lightly
against the forehead, in a promise
that all the future wounds
will have some modicum of purpose.
Just ask, they said, and it will be.
The soul is a gob in your chest.
Be brave and touch it. Oh,
oh, what mess. What thick discharge
from the eyes. I once was blind
and then I got blinder
and then—then—I could see.