Kat Lehmann

It Went on for Three Hours Although He Said It Was Only Two

Not a pain that knows fire 
or learns from a knife 
 
but the kind that unzips scars over hours
tooth-by-tooth.
 
The nurses came running 
but nothing could be done
 
so one of them tapped my hand
for more blood.
 
While it dove for its hooks and crested 
in waves,
 
this fool of a body 
kept me held hostage— 
 
undertow, airless
not quite passing out.

labor induction 
the stream joins the lake
voice first

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About the Author

Kat Lehmann is a founding co-editor of whiptail: journal of the single-line poem. She serves on the panel for The Haiku Foundation’s Touchstone Distinguished Book Awards. Kat lives on the edge of a Connecticut forest, where she is captivated by the grandiose within the details. katlehmann.weebly.com.

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