Thursday, April 14, 2016

Coping Well II

I don’t want to be told I’m doing a good job
in labor: what my body is doing is
against will
against reason
what my body is doing
is a trainwreck of an idea,
for which I deserve as much credit as
beating my heart.

Complimenting labor always seems
condescending, a strange distraction:
how should I respond?
And in this massive state of indignity,
to think of a polite response
only reminds me
how impolite this state of almost-born.

If I could help “doing well” –
to will or unwill it—
what would that even mean?
Withhold the prisoner on the verge of
making a break for it?
Hardly a prudent plan.
On the other hand,
if I could grant him clemency,
release these prison doors,
distribute personal effects,
I’d be glad to help:
sign the papers,
look the other way

But I am neither
guard nor bailiff:
I am the earth he tunnels through,
part of nature in this moment,
part of quaking,
part of being
not choosing,
nothing moral,
no act of the will.

Only being broken,
being stormed,
being flooded,

Say I’m coping well.

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