Of course, I am here
have been here all along
nestled next to the floor
Below me, the blind fish
swim in empty circles
Above me, the tender forms
of humanoids splash
they are pretending to rule
Around me, the old castles
are now covered with algae
ancient spears wither away.
She does not know the meaning
of the dolls, and still has questions
about life where do the babies
come from, after all?
Her inner child still longs for a red
rain slicker, but the box is empty
when she tries to open it why is
it always empty?
With contempt, she takes hope
tries to stitch it to hope, to make
a pretty picture, but the seams just
seem to refuse intersection.
The truth is, she would suck on ether
for the people she loves, kicking down
doors and throwing herself into danger.
What has happened to your arm, the psychologist
begins, but the patient protests: It is not my arm,
for it will not follow my commands, and as Jesus
Himself said, if you love me, follow my commands.
So you mean to say, the good doctor inquires, that it
has been stitched on to you, as if by force?
Id like a Tom Collins, the patient declares, and
round of golf, now pretending to be at a club, avoiding,
always avoiding the questions that would lead
to the truth of the fall, the injury to the cranium
the ugly reality of the wound and convalescence.