Every day in April, you put a poem in our lunch boxes to celebrate poetry month. the internet is your lunchbox and every month is april.
How I’ve changed may not be apparent.I limp. Read and write, make tea at the stoveas I practiced in rehab. Sometimes, like fire,a task overwhelms me. I cry for days, shriekwhen the phone rings. Like a page pulled from flame,I’m singed but intact: I don’t burn down the house.
Later, cleared to drive, I did outpatient rehab. Otherslost legs or clutched withered minds in their hands.A man who can’t speak recognized meand held up his finger. I knew he meantOne year since your surgery. Sixteen since his.Guadalupe wishes daily to be the one before. Nobodyis that. Sometimes, like love, the neurons just cross fire.You don’t get everything back.
Theme by Lauren Ashpole