The pencil must be razor
sharp or it’s too hard
to push. The pen
must be very sharp and fluid
also, or it will be a mess. Not too
fluid though, or it will be
a mess. Since when
did I need special conditions
to exist? Levees
don’t collapse in a day, it takes many
days that seem fine while underneath
the ramparts are slipping. Sifted
right through the body of my
being, health did. For the longest time
you live like you’ll never die and then
like you will. Maybe it’s better
to just keep running except
I want to float. Life is bigger
and smaller than imagined. Nowhere,
nothing, everywhere, everything – pain
oppresses the light, rest
is my resistance. All we can do is
what we can with the hand
we’re dealt. My ancestors,
spirits, guides and
ghosts – drumming
their fingers, cracking
bones, waving dandelion fluff - have always
given me enough but just. That used to feel
luxurious but now, scant. Is care ever
as prolific as we wish? My words
are dull, this poem
ordinary, nothing
I say will make anyone
love me, not with this
illness. Special things elude me and special
is ubiquitous. Listen –
conditions have never been
worse, why try
to understand? It’s not like I ever
quit. Pull my hair back, clean
the altar, refresh
the offerings, please them. Fickle, steadfast,
stingy, generous – no
matter. You get what you get, be
glad or at least grateful. It doesn’t matter
that you’re so sick you fall down. Your survival
is holy, the burden
clears a path -