Marty Silverthorne

I count fingers and toes I have left,
hours and minutes that make up a day,
bluebirds that land on the neighbor’s fence,
songs of pesky mockingbirds.
I count spasms, places pain penetrates,
lovers long gone, curse broken bones
mustard seed faith could not heal.
I count the bloody stripes of suicide
bracelets, years mother and father
have been dead.  I do fractions for
the years I have lived crippled, hospital
rooms I have lain prone in, motel rooms
I never checked out of.  I multiply
the misery and square it by my age.