Steven McLachlan

WATER THERAPY

A barrel of crutches and two
false limbs stand beside wheel-chairs
arranged in an arc. The water (regulated
at just below thirty-seven degrees)
laps at their rubber rims.

Catherine is terrified. Cradled
by the electric crane, descending
slowly into the shallows. She's been
on the table twelve times for her back.
The mess of sutured skin covers her traumatised
nerves, tendon, sinew, all swallowed
by the water, disappearing momentarily.

Here, I can walk.
It is as if I am on the moon.
Graceless, tortured legs
push through water, rough
and thick, like heavy weights.

Tony paddles by. Children's floaties
covering his scars, his tattoos
transformed when he met the bitumen.
The bikie, no longer bearded and muscular,
(now slender and a pasty white)
lost control, speeding on his motorbike.

* * *

EXPLAINING HOW I FEEL TO THE MAN WITH NO EMOTION

Imagine, a live fish were hurled
To the dry-dock of your stomach

And it flip-flopped about, tickling
Walls from the inside.

Imagine, somehow, that the
Fish started a fire that eased

Gently upwards. Your heart leaps
Into double time and skips rope

In your chest. The stomach is a warm
And swollen cauldron

And the head is dulled from the smoke.
The muscles dissolve rapidly,

Making a mess of themselves,
The tongue defects,

Knees fold down
Like picnic table legs.

When all is gone
And you feel you have suffered

Everything all that remains
Is the fish. And the feeling

You must cast off again.

Steven McLachlan is a part time student in Biomedical Science, part time IT Guru in Victoria, Australia. He has been writing for eleven years and is one of the founding members of the wordsinhere group. He is diagnosed with schizo-affective disorder.