What I did was: I suffered and didn’t speak of it.
And expected somehow to come through it
on my own. And presented outwardly
as though I were perfectly alright, free of it
and moving through things slowly, bit by bit
in a stately and admirable way. That wasn’t it.
When small problems conspired to come at me
I snapped. The thing was a rough piece of grit
that itched and itched inside my shell. I scratched it
and the scratch drew blood. I covered it
and it sang at night. And then I couldn’t stand to see
the thing, although it grew and grew. It
was the size of me, a widening slit
that ran from my hip up to the armpit
so everything inside went cold, like things for tea
left out overnight, then over years. I was a hypocrite:
I said I liked to face things down, but then just split.
The truth: I couldn’t. I had to admit
I didn’t believe I’d come back whole, or free,
if I did go in there in the dark, the pit
and all its wrath and sit with it
then howling pull the whole thing out.
What I did was this, instead: tell nobody –
and never come to cure myself of it.
*
From Magma 89, Performance
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