After reading Wisława Szymborska
People avoid poking you
with the spiked details
of their pain. They stuff
them in the private landfill
of their hearts. It’s perfectly
understandable. I’m thinking
of William. For most of his 75
years he withheld from view
the anger and deepest
regret that wiggled ever
so slowly in his aorta
like a catfish raking
a muddy river. Sustained
by dead microbes, snails
and leeches, he kept breathing,
walking and punching
the clock in all the normal
ways though there were small
hints. Often he balled his right
fist like a grenade. That, too, was
normal. William got used to panic
attacks, clenched his jaw
while delivering a well-paced,
respectable 10-minute speech
at Toastmasters. When his wife
needed comfort, he’d push
the junkheap of rage in his heart
straight into his hands. He’d make love,
hug her so tight his fingers
made red stripes on her lonely
shoulders. When William was stricken
with Alzheimer’s things changed. Came
the tantrums, inconsolable sobs.
These, too, fit on the bell curve
of normal. Like so many patients
William lost control. He forgot to hold
the reins. The horse bucked as
the saddle fell off, the blinders
landed in the dirt, the steed
galloped off, long bushy tail swishing.
