Clavicles
I knew two children
who fractured their collarbones.
One tried to fly
like a scene from E.T.
The other was on skis
and more like Steve-O
from Jackass.
Both recall seasons of naked
quiet, not the vibrant cackling
with chums,
but the blankness that comes
when time loses
shape. The curtains
drawn all afternoon.
Crisps and apple
juice on the nightstand.
Clavicles come in pairs,
one boy explained.
Like flesh and what
rattles inside.
When one breaks,
the other collapses too.
*
Susanna Stephens, Ph.D. is a psychoanalyst and poet living in Brooklyn, NY. Her work is published in Rust & Moth, Red Eft Review, Eunoia Review, ROOM: A Sketchbook for Analytic Action, and DIVISION/Review. In addition to writing, she maintains a private practice in Manhattan.
