Thylias Moss
These are the circumstances of my headache,my finding myself in the culture of response
through pain
—maybe because of the way I age:
the same skin since birth, but now
it doesn't cover my bones as well
—in particular there is tension
at my clavicle
(less useful cleavage)
—in particular the looseness of skin
a man once adored seems unnatural
as should responding to everything through
measuring
degress of hurt, grief over what to me
are shadows on the news
—my peculiar
muses: waifs, amalgamations of losses
of forms of trust
—that hurts, that smarts
to occupy all my senses with what so many possibilities
of what so many someones have become
For me, right now out of 300 cable channels
I cannot access Columbo or Mr. Spock,
their way of getting inside my head to soothe,
to bring me relief that is real
even if they are not:
and so it is Columbo and Spock are not now
on demand, so neither is relief
and my headache remains
a kind of proof of the seriousness
of what is locked in my brain,
everything tucked there, fusing there
into a feeling so tremendous it hurts.
I feel the pain of connecting everything.
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