The third of three poems I’ve written on-purpose.
(First two here.)

~ ~ ~

This is the vastly improved version. Which might indicate the quality of the original.

I realized (maybe) why I never write poetry: I had a start here with a series of images, and my mom had the kids (’cause I’m sick and she gave me the morning to rest).

With those prerequisites I resurrected the idea and gave it a body in this poem.

Just one poem in a chunk of time all to myself (I might have finished a chapter in that same time). Little wonder I don’t do poems in my real-life.

Poetry definitely appeals to me, though. I am hooked on imagery and economy of language.

What’s Wrong

A hand came.  You may or may not
remember.  Inserting a hellish
needle it inoculated you

Against peace, against trust.
Things you now pretend
not to need, because your system
fights them.  You think
you’ve learned to live
without them, and you call this
strength.

Why is your pain
a precious thing?
It’s as natural as Lake
Iliamna— maybe even as huge—
but it’s as putrid
as old
cream
cheese.

That’s gangrene you’re ignoring
while it can only spread.

You are not so unique; we all know this
agony: a blanketing burn
that makes any touch ungentle.
And as much as I ache
to bring you to the healing hands
you must first agree you need them.