Marietta McGregor

Ghosting

The telegram informs me you’ve been in an accident. It happened underground. Failed brakes on a loaded wolframite ore trolley. Your hand jammed between jagged steel and Devonian granite.

ice below the drop these cold words

I drive three hours north. The hospital ward supervisor lets me in. Your right arm’s slung over a frame, hand heavily bandaged, gauze brownish from seepage. Your fingertips are dusky. The infection’s gone gangrenous. Surgery tomorrow. You wisecrack about whether the surgeon knows where to stop cutting. You ask, Can I smell it? Fruity as rotten grapes, the smell fills the ward. I don’t answer. You run out of jokes.

knowing only the when and why of me

Home now, without a middle finger. In the fleshy gap between right ring- and forefinger there’s a raised nubbin, the raw exposed tip of a nerve. You joke that touching the tiny bud gives you a buzz. A bit like sex. Even the thought is a cold trickle in my gut. It’s the same 20 years after your death.

all that’s left of us winter willow

---

About the Author

Marietta McGregor is a former science writer from Canberra, Australia. Her haiku, haibun and haiga appear in international journals and anthologies and on Japanese television.