Prostrate

I’m the guest of honor, garden snake at a picnic. My childhood friend and his grown daughter peer concernedly down at me.

They perch politely on camp chairs skirting a blue blanket in the yard, balance plates of hummus, crackers and crudités.

I lie face up, squinting in fidgety afternoon shadows. First foray outside after the accident. I try to writhe discreetly, any position

that will blunt electrified strands of barbed wire raking hip to calf. Can’t help resenting the ease with which they sit.

I lose the conversational thread, picture myself whole, pedaling on Highland past sad, huddled cows, or chucking

firewood rounds out of the pile as if they’re beanbags, then uncoiling a monster maul to bust up oversize chunks.

At night, escape depends upon diverting attention from flayed nerves to external solaces; weight of a duvet,

waft and click of the fan, creak of a headboard, pillow’s cool underside, reassuring rattle of pills knocked off the chair.

My wife insists the worst has passed, even as she teases how I bask in playing the invalid. I want to believe her prognosis,

but I’m still pinned on my back, still fretting about that i-word, how there’s two ways to pronounce it.