Wednesday, November 07, 2012
I've felt this before.
It was right after my cancer diagnosis.
The pulsing, sucking sadness
that pulls everything that has ever made me happy
into some dark chasm of my heart
that I can no longer see or feel.
It's a canker in my chest
and I can't hug myself tight enough
to seal it closed.
If this grief had some mass,
a delineable shape,
I could reach between my ribs
and tear it from my bosom,
ripping away every sinew
and cracking every bone,
until the bloody, seething protuberance
could be inspected and scrutinized
objectively by those with knowledge
about these matters.
But this abyss has roots.
Through foramen and lacunae it probes,
expands, extends and exposes
every slight and mistake,
once covered by abundant love.
This twisting, pulling anguish
infects my muscles, my tissues, my cells.
My spine is no match for it.
There's no one here to save me,
no one to wrap my wounds.
I have become the sadness.