Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Did you hear the alarm voice half an hour after
you were awake? Waiting to wake, the morning creeps
in, peering through seams in the curtain, ambient like
shadowless illumination. Those days I pray the rain
will force me to stay inside where I have every reason to
hide
with my head buried beneath the pain.

Four years, the chart begins, but the horizon fades
as if the sun will never set upon this season
of missed hours simply holding my own. And
most of my friends fear
their prayers go unanswered.

This pain is the pen now that has scraped away the last
upgrade to my face. The lines are bare, bone and woodgrain,
etched without my knowledge. Like siding weathered
on the old beach house, the storms have blown unrelenting,
pelting the old boards exposed to the shore.

I do not fear the flood, nor rain; the sun forces my lids
shut like slits between the curtains. I do not fear the
silence, nor alone; the conversation and rattles of
pots and pans
are the interruptions my pain cannot stand;
I am sorry for the startled gaze, the mumbled grimace.

I fear my prayers go unanswered, I pretend we are closer,
You and me;
I lean upon the only image I have,
place it between my ears, between my eyes,
and resolve I will not falter, I will not retreat;

There is no resting place for the invisible,
no convalescence for pain without a name
(at least a favorite; migraine or tumor).


They call it NDPH, I call it a spear that impales
what used to be my best intentions. Now I cannot wait
until everyone is gone; though my affections
have only grown for the love of those
who refuse to let me suffer this invisible foe
alone.