Thursday, December 17, 2009


I wrote this poem in 2007 apparently. I have no memory of writing it. But I re-read it, and I like it. So here you go.

You're crooked
he said, examining the differing spaces
between rib and pelvis.
And suddenly the daily fossilization
of the muscles of my neck and back
became, not the product of anxiety and stress,
but the fault of a spinal cord
that took a sudden detour to the right.
I saw myself as a negative
an x-rayed line of crooked bones
with limbs hanging haphazardly
like a shirt askew on a hanger.
My mind, always the culprit,
the careless driver careening down the road,
for once was not responsible for the pain.
I walked out of the office carefully
feeling that, at any moment, I may veer off course,
a fate for which I appear to be destined