Landscapes of the Mind - Poems

Communion

Pain is not the taste

of blood, mixed with the brine

of one's tears, but instead

it is a long gulp of cold air

in mid December, going in like a sword

as the sun sets and all color

drains from the western

sky like an infected cut.

You wish it were like the movies ---

oh, to gaze longingly out a window

on a bus or train. To be homesick,

or to be going home! A spiral notebook

laying open in your lap

and the words

flowing, like water

or beautiful music.

But it's awkward and messy,

painfully so. The tears and snot

you are ashamed to call yours,

now rest in the bottom

of a waste basket,

a crumpled mess of tissues;

and the therapist just looks at you

and is silent.

There's no martyrdom

in suffering, no beauty

in the look on your mother's face

when she discovers

you've been hoarding pills again.

there is, however, shame

when you are busted

and sent away.

Now,each morning,

you swallow numbness

[available in capsule form; side effects may vary

but include] dry mouth and nightmares.

They hand you a paper cup

filled with tap water

to wash it

down

but no matter how you try,

you cannot make it taste anything like

romance.