The sorry excuse of a lamp sputters light
in the grey heft of the season’s air.
The daylight is too thin, your tongue too swollen.
Shoveling snow fatigues the muscles in both shoulders
encroaching upon your hand whether it types
or cradles a pen or wipes the steady train
streaking your cheeks, common jewels
glistening the length of your stubbled neck.
Your fingers bleed, but not all the way through
the interspersed bandages that fray as you split wood,
slip loose as you wash dishes.
Poets & therapists & the old guy
at the package store at Oak & Harlow,
they’re always looking for some word,
or phrase that gives it a better name.
A stronger name. One worthy of its might.
They say it is
walking amid molasses,
a recklessly-weighted hibernation,
an acrid sink hole.
All of that is cliché, old hat,
is been-there, done-that.
Still, how many times have you wished
for the reprieve a sink hole might offer?
A chance to descend into silent sigh,
no tether, no miracle ledge to catch you.
To sink, sink, sink
into something other
than this abrupt halt,
this cold metal curse,
this twisting stucco
taloned with unintention
that shreds tender fingers
offering to stroke its texture,
while insipid lamplight disperses only trivial shadows.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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