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Old Flame

When I told him the inside of his knee was a sacred place, a beautiful thing, he scoffed at me. It’s just a knee, he said. Had he seen the pictures? The same pictures the orthopedic surgeon showed me in the waiting room in early morning after it was over, smiling at the results of his artist’s hands, the delicate reshaping of my lover’s left knee damaged in an accident? Inside the jagged edge of meniscus had been carved off to look like the inside of a Greek church—smooth, creamy, white domes of quiet, grey, cavernous spaces as dark as the corners of an attic a girl would not dare enter without holding the hand of her best friend I said it to the surgeon, too: beautiful and secretly decided

The White Fire of Time

IV. The cell's honeycomb fragile as that of wasps, Which hangs down midday under a branch of Fresh laurel; Yes, only at home on this earth-- And as such makes as best it can its place in it; And love, as it does, the things of the flesh. From: The White Fire of Time by Ellen Hinsey Chapter XVII.

    © 2015 by Marjorie Robertson