Poetry by L.R. Smith
pain wakes me with the pale stealth of dawn’s
scattered, creeping light. incomprehensible,
this disintegration of the body within its own skin,
the dissolution ground into my consciousness
as my bones work each other like jacob and esau.
jacob and esau. my children. my god, my child.
what will happen to this child whom i do not
understand but love so unspeakably —
this child for whom i mourn
as myself, who helps me
into the wheelchair i hate,
who must watch me die,
so young —
i know death is coming.
i lose track of its speed, but it comes
to take me. leave her.
within myself i feel this leavetaking.
i feel mind and body no longer one.
yet perhaps they are more knowingly joined,
for sometimes i feel conscious
of the very line and curve of eroding bone.
i watch her hands curve over the piano
as mine once did. no. hold your hands
as if you’re cradling a chick.
some things she lets me teach her.
she is so stubborn. perhaps that is good.
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
day is upon us lit with grace
enough. my bones will not bear me
much further, but neither
will i let the pain bear me away.
there is more. for however long
I will live in that more.
L. R. Smith is a writer living in Salem, MA. In her former life as an academic she published the de rigueur sensible scholarship as well as the occasional not-so-sensible poem. She has recently fallen in love with the art of bookbinding and book arts to enjoy the satisfaction of finishing books while she waits for agents to get back to her about manuscripts.
Arcturus 