Day 17 – Sick Day

There is nothing that a doctor
could find wrong with me-

so I cannot get a note.
But I’m staying home
anyway.

I’ve got a fever of the mind
I can’t prove,
yet I feel

heavy,
collapsed from the inside,
tense
from holding steady
too long.

There is a seed of grief
I have to tend to
before it grows big,

a sadness which wonders
at all the scuttling,
all the getting by.

“Am I getting lost?”

I know this road too well,
I know the cost,
I know the cure,

and today I’m calling out
to fix myself.

Advertisements

Love Poem for the Sadness

In the evenings I hear my vertebrae crack,
applause, accepting that consolation prize
in grim silence,
in grin’s solace,
in the low of secret trippings of harp strings,
however contradictory,
beautiful on deaf ears.

I sing with the pain as with the fury,
as with the written nuances of joy.

I hear the underwater snapping of pieces,
muffled by an ocean and wrapped in flesh
quiet by virtue of uniformity,
quiet by virtue of reality,
and quiet by virtue of reverence.

I should’ve asked the hopping bluebird
if his lot was mean to bear
before the crushing of his head had foiled his helping-
his jaw and mine and the cat’s all still
before daylight.

But I know that brimstone doesn’t spoil in the heat
as angel-milk bestowed to lube aching joints,
and I have eaten my share of birds-

we are all hurtled to Earth
on breaking bones.