My Year on the Couch

When cushions
held my spine immobile
I learned to dwell
as a serpent does,
more amphibian
than woman. Pink pills
bought me time.
An inch or two or three
from done, I gripped
the remote
on my makeshift raft
and watched the screen,
unwavering. My eyes
glazed over -- beady,
reptilian, rudimentary --
unable to interpret
the truth of my location.

Now I can stand and
make my way down the hall
all by myself. It feels good
to reach the door, to
have a hand that's
strong enough to
turn a knob and pull.
I stroll outside, feel the wind,
am dumbstruck by
my neighbor's stairs--fifties,
gray, cement—skinny rails stark
next to barren stucco walls.

Back at home, I return to
the couch, sit down
in front of the fire we bought
from Overstock.com. Flames
draw me in
despite their lack of
crackle or smell.
It's so much easier
to please me now,
now that I know
where I am.

Comments

[mary ann]

I really love this one...

[Linda]

This is a wonderful poem.

[Harlan Lewps]

Maybe it's like when you fly through the thick cloud layer and realize the sky is crystal blue above it. No way to see it when you're in it. Beautiful poem.

[Jeff]

Thanks, Jane. I really like it. Why does it always take being at another place or time to see where we were before?

"And where was that?
I couldn't see when I was there. It wasn't
even remotely clear. Does
anyone, ever?"