Posted on Feb 19, 2011 in Blog |

I wrote this poem in a poetry class at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland under the wonderful guise of the poetry man himself, Reuben Jackson. ¬†I am ashamed to say I have no idea the type of poem this is, but we had to follow strict rules to create it (something I am not very good at). . . . enjoy. i. I am 47 years old and sometimes almost as invalid as my mother, 79, after a stroke. Every component of my body is riddled with disease Muscles, tendons, fascia, bone, and brain. The spirochete bacteria have entered and thrived Drilling from blood vessel walls through tissue, ligament and marrow. Pillaging as they roam, multiplying along their way. On my stomach, lifting alternate arms and legs My leg is not lifting Swelling and disease disabled my brain’s messaging ‘It’s ok, sweetie, it will come back. We’ll just keep trying,’ she says. I pelvic tilt and try to plank, Hoping this time my muscles hear the brain’s message and follow along. They do not. I am incontinent despite constant kegels. I used to bend, flex, and stretch as well as a gymnast. Pliable, agile and entertaining. Now, stiff and heavy as concrete I wince and tear up when morning arrives, knowing it will be 30 minutes of stretching before I can bend enough to pee. The closest I come to sports is tennis elbow and ankles the size of baseballs. Vicoprofen and Tramadol have become my daily pocket friends, accompanying me everywhere I go. I cannot stand more than five minutes, Even changing sitting positions every few, Terrified of becoming a stone statue. ii. Grocery store visits less than 30 minutes And don’t even think about reaching for anything on the bottom or top two shelves. Did you know that grocery stores only have six shelves? Shopping mall walks non-existent for more than a year. Stairs no longer an option, rather, a terror. God, please let there be a ramp. Special seating in the movie theater for me, Thank God for Handicapped placards. Silence and darkness befriend me. My husband’s whistles drill through my brain, the shrill making...

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