Split, by David Sapp

Uncle Gregg was split
In two, nearly two feet,
Cleaved down the center.
Though curious,
Everyone was too polite;
Of course, I asked.

He lifted his shirt above
Belly and breast,
A gracious, intimate nakedness,
But he was eager to reveal,
Prove our inevitability,
Our mortality. Look! See?

His scar, a vertical wry smile,
Nearly a grimace, laughed
At me, opened his heart to me.
I’ve heard survivors say
After this surgery, only
Matters of love are significant.

David Sapp, writer, artist and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence grant and an Akron Soul Train fellowship for poetry. His poems appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha; and a novel, Flying Over Erie.