Convalescence

by Karen Harryman

The poem you cannot write is rife
with Listerine and oily hairbrushes,
horn-rimmed glasses and dirty pajamas.
Makes a dank room in your brain, slumps
amidst curtains garish with afternoon sun,
the tin pots lining sculptured carpet,
catching leaks. Invalid with a crooked face
and a wheelchair, the poem is older than you,
will not write itself so you tend to it daily,
give your life in small bits, eat what it leaves behind.
You don't remember the poem as a young thing,
only this burden having its say, roundabout,
lodged tumor-thick, pressing against your words.