Of late and at last, I have been holding my health (the physical limitations resulting from my parietal-pest) under the light of poetry. In the 15 years since the discovery of my glial-glommer, I have occasionally written in response to my ordeal, as an after-the-fact sort of bemoaning or an ironic sort of simpering; but recently I have decided to concentrate more roundly on my condition, more honestly. There is a tendency to hold our insufficiency at arm's length. At arm's length behind our backs. At arm's length, behind our backs, while whistling past graveyards. In my writing, I have done this most often with half-cocked poetry. So of late and at last, I am illuminating my neuro-nuisance with a commitment to an ingenuous chronicle of my case, to temper my aloof devices (I am looking at you Metaphor) with simple sincerity.
That said, here is something I wrote this past weekend. I often wake from sleep feeling quite capable, quite boundless, quite vivacious. Just as often, I roll out of bed and hobble, feeble-footed and toe-tripped, to the coffee maker, needing a boost like a child to witness a parade and a push like a child to begin to swing. Before long, I am grinding about my business, usually feeling good enough to not complain but never so well as to emulate the man of my dreams.
Reprieve in REM
In my literal dreams, I can run. Can swan-
Dive then swim then hold
My breath and drown. Can resurface
On my own. Can be
On a team, picked first for my capabilities—
Base-stealing, going long.
Can fight for myself, for my family,
Can launch, circle Saturn, survive
Re-entry, parachute, plummet,
Then swim, then hold
My breath and drown. Can afford
To lose hope. Can jog for fitness.