Passing through Common Time

He thought the worst was past
the day the doctors removed the bandages.
He could remember the look of the bones
having bit through from the inside,
sliding their way free of his borders.
Now that they seemed again
safely swaddled in his own skin,
progress was being made.

He imagined healing to be a hill,
with a sweaty and painful ascent,
followed by lunch and
a cooling walk down to the waiting car.

But the muscles screamed their refusal
everyday.  The red and bumpy skin
stretched over hip, thigh, and knee
asserted its own unhurried interest in change, and
his leg seemed unconcerned with the whole
ugly and pathetic process.

Eventually,
after years of strange stretching and pulling
and daily rituals of twists and reaches,
after day after day after day
of salves and massages,
the worst of the pain subsided.

But still his skin looked red and waxy;
his gait, uneven.

His doctor simply said,
"Welcome to your new body.
There is nothing wrong with it.
You just don't like it as much
as you think you liked your old body,
but which I happen to remember
you also complained about."

The next day he woke up
at peace with his body:
isn't that what we want to say?

I don't know that it isn't possible, only
that it seems improbable,
given that I do not love
my body, and I am not convinced
that you love yours.