When the nurse unbandaged my head, I
realized I couldn’t speak in the old language;
the muscle of my mind knew no way to hold
the cleverness of its bons mots. All through
my body the ache of accident persisted.
Reader,
you cannot know how I want this poem to end
in morning glories on the vine. But the best efforts
of my brain lead only to a spastic salute to life
made with my half-crippled arm raising its hand
to the swollen brow of my half-closed eye.
How can I tell you I’ve discovered in this new
language the infinite possibilities of pain & suffering
that exist in the universe? Yet my one open eye still
sees each pinprick blink of brightness called star
as the dark universe continues to expand.
Friend,
I’ve come to the conclusion that suffering is the invisible
air we can’t stop breathing; it surrounds the spirit
like the unconscious laying siege to our joy.
How can I tell you I awake each morning
to a different color of sun clawing at my window
like a dark tiger stalking my injured brain?
Tim Mayo’s poems and reviews have appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, Barrow Street Journal, Narrative Magazine, Poetry International, and Salamander among other places. His poems have received seven Pushcart Prize nominations. His second volume of poems, Thesaurus of Separation (Phoenicia Publishing, 2016) was a finalist for both the 2017 Montaigne Medal and the 2017 Eric Hoffer Book Award, and his chapbook Notes to the Mental Hospital Timekeeper also won an Honorable Mention in the 2020 Eric Hoffer Chapbook Award. He works at the Brattleboro Retreat, a mental institution, and is a founding member of the Brattleboro Literary Festival.
