A Poem for When You Ask What’s Wrong
Pain syndromes are common in multiple sclerosis. In one study, 55 percent of people with MS had, "clinically significant pain," at some time, and almost half had chronic pain. ~National Multiple Sclerosis Society
Think of spring days—weather radio jolts you—
lemon poppy seed muffins, dishes, towels and whites.
By evening, grass still dry, sun slats through drooping
white pouches in gray-blue clouds and backyard greened limbs,
neighborhood children bike sidewalks, adults nod and wave.
We all know what roiling darkness passes just north of our stolen
evening, our cranberry and vodka, curb scraped knees
and chiggered ankles. Think of my walking like this—
my steady step today as burgled. Imagine each morning I must open
my night-sleep closed wounds, choose between a spoon or scalpel.
Which would you prefer for the job? Imagine a billowing veil that never lifts
laced like stone into my hair. I’m not the dry asphalt, the retirees watering.
I’m not the clutched-kneed child. I’m the wailing
squall line, funneled wind—needle thrust out to waiting skin.
How many times each day must you consider pain?
When you ask, imagine me as an opened animal twitching roadside.
lemon poppy seed muffins, dishes, towels and whites.
By evening, grass still dry, sun slats through drooping
white pouches in gray-blue clouds and backyard greened limbs,
neighborhood children bike sidewalks, adults nod and wave.
We all know what roiling darkness passes just north of our stolen
evening, our cranberry and vodka, curb scraped knees
and chiggered ankles. Think of my walking like this—
my steady step today as burgled. Imagine each morning I must open
my night-sleep closed wounds, choose between a spoon or scalpel.
Which would you prefer for the job? Imagine a billowing veil that never lifts
laced like stone into my hair. I’m not the dry asphalt, the retirees watering.
I’m not the clutched-kneed child. I’m the wailing
squall line, funneled wind—needle thrust out to waiting skin.
How many times each day must you consider pain?
When you ask, imagine me as an opened animal twitching roadside.
Allison Blevins received her MFA at Queens University of Charlotte. She is the author of the chapbooks Susurration (Blue Lyra Press, 2019), Letters to Joan (Lithic Press, 2019), and A Season for Speaking (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019), part of the Robin Becker series. Her book Slowly/Suddenly is forthcoming in 2021 (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press). She is the Director of Small Harbor Publishing and the Poetry Editor at Literary Mama. Her work has appeared in such journals as Mid-American Review, the Minnesota review, Raleigh Review, and Sinister Wisdom. She lives in Missouri with her wife and three children where she co-organizes the Downtown Poetry reading series.
Art: Gerik Parmele / Reshot