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Celebrating Imagination and the Wonderful, Wild Ride that is Life

Friday, December 6, 2013


here I am again
back to that smell of fear.
stuck in the waiting place
for my body,
but especially
for my mind.

looking forward
and backward

the familiar feel of the crisp robe
(that makes me feel so small)
dropping from my chest
like a weak curtain
that announces a show about to begin.
boring and rote for the viewer
who repeats the performance
a hundred times a week,
on the same stage,
under the same unfriendly lights.
the only difference
is the prop:


waiting for the cold probing hands.
never the same pair
but always, always
the same,
cold dry and antiseptic,
and now over time
somehow reassuring.
waiting as they flutter over skin,
too personal
yet never taking enough time,
never searching deeply enough.
wanting them to see inside,
to act like a divining rod for sickness.
but that is the fear:
the wanting to be known.
the wanting to be owned by those hands.
to surrender responsibility
and make them make the discovery
and leave me out of it.
but that can never happen.
what is there is always there.

while waiting and wondering
the memories slip out.
the too accurate memories of the first time,
too late,
so scared and alone.
and all the times in between
spent always
with the waiting.
all of those times:
the first
the then
the after
the now
collected together on the same
string of fear.
a fine sharp wire
that pierces each memory
each moment
each breath,
and I balance on it
trying to stay calm
and not fall.

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