the anatomy of pain

What do you fight pain with?
The laughter of a ten year old.
What if her head is shaved, and
there is a cannula permanently lodged in her arm?

Find another child. or
Look the other way, at the stained wall.
Apathy might yet be the good fight.
if you feel like it, throw in a prayer.
but be careful what you wish for.
Concerned but not involved is a good plan too.

Some people including your favourite doctor
Choose pills. Neat.
But that changes the battleground.

Solace has been known
To be found in comparison.
'It could have been worse' has
assuaged many a curse.
freud might be brought up here.
So could schadenfreude.

Drudges swear by their mantra -
'May every waking hour be a working one.'
No time for pain, no need for a fight.
That could 'work', who knows.

Meanwhile, the little girl
hugs her mother with a bruised arm
and on her way out, smiles at you.
right there, that moment tells you
all you really need to know -

Don’t fight pain. It is the last bastion
of the civilized.

Outside the window,
A man is kicking a dog.
Machines are honking at one another.
Three boys are sitting ‘together’
texting each other lewd things
and sharing guffawing emojis.

Your facebook feed brings up Gibran
on this world poetry day -
“Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.”

condolence

i will remember you

forever more

in the lingering incense

of charred roses.

the body is smoke

and flies with vultures

(the spirit always soars higher

with the eagles)

they used to say

you were ungraspable.

i can hold you now

in a small brass receptacle.

i think everyone agrees

ashen is not your colour.

especially when semal and jasmine

line the street i carry you across

to what was once home.

it is the onset of spring.

and i sit here mourning 

this autumnal shedding

wondering where the fallen leaves go

and how the branches hold back their instinct

to reach down and bring them back

into their fold.

does the tree know its loss?

should i shake it out of its reverie

urging it to look down

at what was once its own?

does it need consolation

knowing what is gone?

where are its copious tears,

the swollen eyes

red and numb?

in the silence that comes

of unasked questions

i find myself

sitting with you firmly

in hands that have not stopped shaking

under a tree that has no shade to offer.

it looks at me

with a warmth that reminds me of you

and asks, without malice

- 'what kind of loss have you known?