The Near Miss


After the second month, my eyes drew in colours;

movement returned to my fingertips, my lungs

heaved with the weight of it:

I awoke, like a miracle

after the accident

with that foul wound, ribs open,

that traumatic wound in my chest

somehow they’d patched it

together with linen, sutures


and they told me how close I had come

to falling irretrievably,

past all hope, in love.


They stitched me up, put

someone’s ribs back in, left

something palpable

out of the jigsaw in my chest

(I never mentioned your name, I swear),

prescribed some opiate poison and

they repeated how singularly lucky I had been.

But they said that after the operation

I might never really breathe again, without help, on my own.


And I have since then,

every single day since then,

wished they had left me on the operating table.


Yeah. This is Plath: this is so entirely Plath. As a student I totally Plathed. All over the place. It was horrendous. But then again, we all get our hearts broken: you know what it’s like. 


2 thoughts on “The Near Miss

    • Yeah. I was Plathtastic as a teenager. Plathing around the place like a big, sodden sponge of Plath. I’ve sort of grown out of that self-indulgence now – almost.

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