The pillow of an insomniac
cleaved by her back
tells of her vigil
sitting upright
in the black cold syrup
of slow minutes
the hour of the wolf
they call it
because it stalks the weak
because it devours
nothing changes in her grey room
but behind her eyes
the pageant of life
and death
rehearsing every misspoken line
rebreathing every choked breath
rewalking every unknowable path
sitting up
but wandering
trapped
amid the masks and powdered wigs
of
judges
and mimes.
Epistaxis
word so dressy
but it’s still nosebleed
obnoxious, messy.
I have this thing
called H.H.T.*
commonest symptom
nosebleeds, you see.
So people say
“What a big yawn —
I’ve had nosebleeds
they’ve come and they’ve gone.”
Not for me
with H.H.T.
Instead of blood vessels
with cute little capillaries
I have kinky pretzel-like
vascular vagaries.
Some are big
and some are small
but “older” and “weaker”
apply to them all.
From brain in the north
to legs in the south
the bleed that startles most
is the one in the mouth,
that look to which
I most aspire:
the dripping, sated
happy vampire.
I’m sick and tired
of all the red tissue
but I realize this
really isn’t the issue.
The headlines fill me
with fear and foreboding
the whole bloody mess
is too near exploding.
Epistaxis is just
that last mythic straw
which gets the angst
unstuck from my craw.
*Hereditary Hemorrhagic Telangiectasias, aka Osler-Weber-Rendu Syndrome,
a genetic bleeding disorder I tried to describe previously in In Our Blood.
It’s about a lot more than nosebleeds.
We might limp
and lean a bit
to the taut of ab
we seem unfit
but in plaids and paisleys
chic, urbane
we refute such hooey
by raising cane.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
There’s a joke about a river
called Denial
sludged with fear
cunning and wile.
It looks like this
from first inception
thick with the grit
of self-deception.
Nothing funny
about this joke
all it does
is gag and choke.
Yesterday I drove to the park and, as always, slowed on the adjacent street, where little wiggly people are unloaded from back seats. A car at the curb had its doors open on the street side, so I stopped and waited.
A man stood at the side of the car, arm outstretched, helping someone out. Not a wiggly little person but a ponderously slow older person. A woman. Bundled warmly against the November day, she held his hand tightly. I caught only a brief glimpse of her but I knew. I knew those blank eyes and that empty face. I knew that slight curl inward. I couldn’t swallow because of the lump in my throat and I couldn’t see because of the tears. It all comes back so quickly.
I walked around the park and so did they. No. They did not walk. She moved her feet in that familiar shuffle, achingly slow, leaning hard on him. His baby steps described patience beyond words. Twice I noticed that they stood in embrace, she apparently clinging to him.
There was a slight wind, causing tears to run down my face. I tasted their salt and was grateful for the release.
Caregiving and dementia change people so I cannot say if he were husband or son, but I think son. I think the husband was at the playground with a little granddaughter, he seeking respite which isn’t because there is no respite from dementia. It is merciless in its constancy and as steely cold as the water in the creek.
I stood over the creek yesterday and thought about the cold water that runs through life and the daunting aloneness of those who stand firm in it.
I am generous to a fault
so I give this gift to you.
Now please excuse me while I seek
the tree on which it grew.
Dear reader, did you know that October 28, better known as THIS FRIDAY,
is National Chocolate Day? My calendar says so; therefore, it must be true.
Are you ready for it?
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
The waiting chair
where time stops
where machines and tubes
beepings, flashing numbers
measure life
in lifeless pulse.
My chair once
sometimes my younger son’s
as we
waited
for one fading generation
now my firstborn’s
as he waits
for me.
