While Cleaning the Playroom
Nestled between his dusty baseball glove
and Darth Vader mask,
I find the cast Riley saved
from his broken arm.
I remember how,
running to tell me something,
he had fallen on the floor,
his left limb caught
oddly underneath his torso
like a snapped tree branch—
his first and only break.
I couldn’t stand even
a part of him damaged,
but he wore his cast
like a medal,
hoisted his arm skyward
to show his friends.
When the doctor removed the cast,
the speeding, circular blade
so close to his skin—
I had to look away.
That was the year before he died.
Now, I sit in the playroom
and remember him
placing the cast on the shelf.
Its neon orange body split in two
like a part of himself
he would no longer need.
I put the pieces together
to make it whole again,
an orange shell, bent,
frayed at the wrist.
I can almost remember
what it was like
when he had an arm.
by Chanel Brenner
Chanel Brenner is the author of Vanilla Milk: a memoir told in poems, (Silver Birch Press, 2014). Her poems have appeared in Poet Lore, Rattle, Cultural Weekly, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Anderbo, West Trestle Review, and others. Her poem, “July 28th, 2012” won first prize in The Write Place At the Write Time’s contest, judged by Ellen Bass. In 2014, she was nominated for a Best of the Net award and a Pushcart Prize. www.chanelbrenner.com