Words
Parole. Mote in one’s own eye. The deceit
That a lifetime is. I wasn’t there
When. Something
Happened. A chair was pushed out from a table.
Don’t listen if you don’t want to know
What happened, the Sergeant said. I don’t want to know
The future as it’s seen on that inked slip of paper
That says one has only now and no more.
It was fourth grade or fifth.
Or it was eighth grade or the grade up the side
Of the river or the ditch at the side of the road.
Was very steep. It’s always been difficult.
Breath like a hollow rasp but almost silent.
A management that keeps one sane. A hand gliding
An iron over a piece of fabric.
Like skates, like a cross stitch
Done to keep one’s attention from wavering.
The self talking to a mirror.
All the doctors know that. The ones who see you lying
On a sofa. They know that there is a sound
In one’s head. They know there is that deep
Relief from the waking state called sleep. How little else
They know unless you tell them. I tell them
I wish I could lie under the summer.
- Mary Jo Bang
Copyright © 2006 Mary Jo Bang. All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review