there’s an itch between my shoulder blades —
the hardest place to scratch.
i convert to contortionism
and learn to fold myself in fourths.
i dislocate my shoulderbones attempting to eradicate discomfort,
but i break the joint so often, it never has time to heal.
i jump through hoops
and give no second thought to my safe landing.
i trust the ligaments have not yet worn away.
i reach toward the middle of my back:
touch the premonition of a stabbing,
scratch a scab that’s not yet formed,
place my fingers on a wound
that’s yet to come.
editors note: Oh, the pain we have in anticipation of the pain we haven’t. – mh clay