When I move I sometimes
feel tiny aches in my body.
They come from old injuries
flaring up anew. I would think
they would have settled down
long ago and forgotten me,
let me go.
They have found their way
back, as if always hiding
in my body and always
looking for a way to make
themselves known to me.
Pain–it is not something
to treasure, not worth of
holding on to, so I know
this pain I’m feeling is not
a sensation I want to feel.
If something from the distant
past were to visit it me, I
would think it would come to me
something more like this:
a flock of lofty birds
settling beside me and beaking
into a juicy bug or spilled crumbs.
I would like to shake off
the pain by writing about it.
At some daring moment
I lift my pen and shake the ink
to hear why it insists
on visiting me. I’m such an
animal already, without this
further noisy reminder.
Maybe quieting my lower
self through silence and
focusing on the little wonders
of life might make this
hour go easier, let the pain
wander back to its place
of beginning without
me begging it to please leave.
