It’s a strange thing to manage: of you and not, it, itself, an otherness,
living and breathing, in and yet beyond you, insidiously skulking around.
Nerve slasher, I call it, breath thief, dignity embezzler, hope arsonist.
From its last kiss before sleeping to its first caress when waking
it’s the demon that haunts you in-between: silent, unseen, crippling.
How did such a one become a friend?
This poem was first drafted by my sister, Cindy, who was then—and had, at that point, been for some years—facing severe medical issues, most of which are now (thank God!) resolved.
Thank you for reading Pain. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
The photograph was taken at Harkness Memorial Park, on the Connecticut side of the Long Island Sound. To see my photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh blog.
Poem © Lucinda Lenora Hayden. Photograph and notes © John Etheridge; all rights reserved.