Pain
more faithful
than lover or husband
it cleaves to you,
calling itself by your name
as if there had been a ceremony
at night you turn and turn
searching for one
bearable position,
but though you may finally sleep
it awakens ahead of you
how heavy it is,
displacing with its volume
of your very breath
before, you seemed to waigh nothing
your arms might have been wings
now each finger adds its measure;
you are pulled down by the weight
of your own hair
and if your life should disappear ahead of you
you would not run after it.
Copyright © April Bartaszewicz | Year Posted 2007
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