Four Choruses of a Broken Back

I.

I'm not the kind of person who can ask for help.

Yet, when I put out the slightest plea,

so many respond.

A humbling throng of friends

who love, support, suggest, pray.

Offering more than I could ever even say ~

money, healing, company.

I read through their notes and mail

and chide myself for these tears.

That I sit here, self-pitying

still after all these years.

Crying out for Mom. Bawling again for Daddy.

Calling to the loves of my life

who always took such gentle care...

I want them here.

I want the ones that can no longer be

here at my side

smoothing my hair

doting on me as I lay helpless and immobile.

Love in their eyes.

Just to once more see that look

of love for me in their eyes.

I cannot be loved too much.

I can never be loved enough.

I could make friends with all the people of the world.

Could be adored by fans from sea to sea.

Could be a respected leader in my nation or community

but it would pass me right by.

Register only in my thoughts as a humbling gift

that I am ever lavished with love.

Without even asking, it has always enveloped me.

My heart holds out for the love that has passed me by,

and this is why I cry, alone.

Lying broken in my home.

For my father's friendship

and my mother's hands...

this is why I can no longer stand.

II.

The ghosts have taken up residence ~

shacking up in my back,

calling to me in painful cries,

demanding my attention.

I know them all well.

I see them clearly as the masseuse kneads and prods them

away from my spine, out of my muscles.

Tries to bribe them from my nervous system with cooling and heat.

They won't budge - they laugh at my attempts.

They've learned these tricks by now,

have banded together and

ain't goin' no-how.

They've plastered themselves to my vertebrae and sacrum.

At war with my indifference,

they shoot arrows of flashing pain

through my thigh to my knee.

Cocked my hips til I'm

crooked as can be.

I look in the mirror -

my body is crippled and lame.

They want to be called out by name:

Joey's Hands; Mr. Mean;

Michael's Love for Little Emily.

My husband is there, as are

nieces and nephew.

And though they hide their faces,

I'm certain my sisters are feeding at the root.

What more can I do?

I journal, I cry,

talk to friends and the shrink.

Try to avoid thinking of it all too much,

to avoid feeling weak (like now - see? They always get their way!)

Trying to move forward, independent and strong,

focused on songs and art and play and peace,

but these ghosts are always lingering in me...

III.

And now she's feeling sad

about a boy.

(her back says): "Puh-leeze.

What a distraction!

I'm in some REAL pain here girlfriend!"

In their brief love affair

there wasn't even enough to qualify

or justify

the space in her heart she's given him.

(Is she ego-tripping out simply because of his rejection?)

Yes, he's a good lover (like him, and him, and her)

Carries on fine conversation (like Dancing Pants and the DJ on her station)

Makes her feel at ease (ah - you got me there! A novelty...)

But still, what's the thrill?

She's certain he's not the man of her dreams.

Knows full well they aren't destined to be.

Yet, she's chosen to place him

above the other men

who are wooing and cooing and begging

to get into her heart, and her lovely lady parts.

Not smart, my little friend...

IV.

The pain in my back is my inner child

throwing a temper tantrum.

I feel her pain.

I know her rage and anger

her violence

masking her fear of being alone

in the big world.

She digs her heels into my spine,

demanding: "I want to be loved!

I want to be the most important somebody

to somebody

that anybody's ever known!"

"Hush child!" I tell her, "You already are, my dove!

I'm loving you, loving you

as hard as anyone ever could! "

She gnashes teeth into my tailbone.

She karate-chops my lower vertebrae

into bone-white china plates,

to serve up sashimi of psoas muscle.

She refuses to listen, or to believe.

She is ever just like me.