Watermark

there is no good news

 

this room this bright quilt 

winter waits on the other side 

of these dark windows 

elsewhere cities 

in dust and rubble 

everywhere cities 

 

on fire all this has nothing 

to do with me the naked child running 

through fire has nothing to do with me 

these buildings become dust 

have nothing to do with me

I sit on this bright quilt 

 

blue and white and red 

patterns of flowers and thread 

I drink from my modern porcelain 

blue and white cup a pale 

version of Italian cappuccino 

what is true? who is to blame?

 

I open the bedroom window winter 

is coming as it has here for many 

generations of my line of which 

I am the last these are not my 

children they have nothing to do 

with me

 

who is innocent? they carry 

small broken bodies of children 

holding shoulders holding knees 

the bodies bent loosely heads 

tipped back limp arms dropping 

in the evening I turn down the heat 

~ sb

The Bedroom

It’s a large room, as bedrooms go. It has two double windows. The shutters are closed. The bed is metal, painted blue. It’s a narrow bed, neatly made. An old radio stands on the bedside table. The only sounds this room hears are from that radio. 

The floor is golden oak, showing its age. The walls, too, are expressive, with cracks in the plaster on every side. The ceiling boasts a schoolhouse light and fan, turning slowly this autumn day. The lamp on the bedside table was an oil lamp, with a chimney, electrified now with a flickering bulb, a hint of the original flame. There is no soot on the glass chimney. 

Books and papers are piled on the bedside table, the only suggestion of disorder. Even the medicines are labeled and neatly organized in lines. If a cat leaves fur on the quilt, there is no sign of it. 

Neighborhood Mid-October

 

I hear the sweet voice of a young woman 

making love. “Oh!” she says, “Oh!” 

 

The birch trees tremble with sparrows. Yellow

leaves and seed husks flicker to the ground. 

 

Dragon-Cat leaps to the porch bannister. He sits, 

staring at the window, waiting to be noticed. 

 

Two squirrels have sex in the garden. 

They take turns, being boy, being girl. 

 

In the arctic, a glacier cracks 

another piece of itself 

into the sea. 

 

~sb

 

Why I'm Not There

CHRISTMAS EVE VISITORS

Family and friends are celebrating these holidays together at Chico Hot Springs. I haven’t been there since childhood and would like to visit again. I’m not going this time. 

A quarter of a century ago, I was diagnosed with ME/CFS (myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome.) It cost me my job, my career, most of my friends, and all of my social life. I have never been bed bound for more than a day or two at a time, but I have been housebound for much of these two and a half decades. 

ME/CFS is at least partly an immune system disorder, and seems to be a cousin to Long Covid. Both are post-viral illnesses with a universe of symptoms, including fatigue (tiredness to the tenth), brain fog, body aches, cognitive deficits, etc etc etc. Long Covid has, as well, sometimes terminal heart problems. 

Covid itself is terminal for some, especially those with characteristics I share: elder, fat, immune system dysfunctions. When it first made its appearance, I was less concerned with the fatal implications of a pandemic than with the ongoing threat of massive disability. We have not even begun to count how many survivors are beginning their journey into my world. 

It’s an extremely limited world. Sometimes (not recently) I have been able to go out for a meal. Since Alan entered my life and took on much of the daily tasks required to keep us and our pets and our house in order, I’ve even been able to travel. 

Alan can drive, as I often can’t due to brain fog or pain or fatigue. He can plan and carry bags and take our little Pomeranian for walks. We have learned that, after a full day of travel, I will need to spend a day in bed, maybe more, and we plan for that. Road trips have become a favorite activity for me. One, since Covid, rarely indulged, and now mostly avoided. 

In Montana, most people are (or think they are) “back to normal”. Very few wear masks at all, even in medical spaces where they are presumably required. Many do not vaccinate, despite the risk to others. For people like me, with impaired immune systems, infection is a real danger. 

Reports emphasize that one of the most dangerous activities one can engage in is eating in a restaurant. It is also one of the most pleasant to share with friends and family, and one I don’t feel able to risk. 

This holiday gathering will involve crowds, eating out, and socializing in various places with various people, known and unknown. In addition to the symptoms mentioned above, I am easily overwhelmed by noise and light and too much going on. Supermarkets are hell. 

Alan’s family has been welcoming and courteous to me. I have been in their homes and it was a soft landing. But … and this is not their problem, but mine … I don’t help. You know how, when you visit friends and family, you help out? Maybe chop veggies for dinner, or sweep a floor, or help with washing up? I usually can’t do that. It feels bad to not do that. 

It feels bad to be a downer. It feels bad to not participate. It feels bad to be there but absent. It feels very bad to miss these years of grandchildren growing up, miss getting to know each unique, amazing personality. I have had, and hope to have more, time with them. I cannot be a regular grandma, certainly not a storybook grandma, but to the extent I can I would like to know them and for them to know me. 

But most of all, I want as long as possible with my friend and lover and husband while we are both able to fully appreciate our time together. This late romance was an unexpected gift. My illness is not its only burden, but so far we have held together. I hope we can keep doing so. 

[Crossposted from Abide: Living With Chronic Illness]

#MECFS

#LongCovid

#chronicillness

even in sleep

 

 

an accumulation of wounds

a collection of injuries 

scars not visible 

to casual eyes 

 

i sit on a stool 

brushing my hair 

 

snow drifts, thick 

and slow past 

the window 

 

each day

the death count

rises

 

i am glad to be old 

to not witness 

what is coming 

 

my own selfish choices 

 

even in sleep 

there is no 

forgiveness

 

 

~ sharon brogan

january 02022

 

#poem

 

questions

    

How does the writer's brain work? It is a bewilderment to me, why it must be this particular word, or that particular image. How is it that now, in this time of several national and global crises, I emerge from sleep holding to this juxtaposition: 

    i wake 

    my face is wet 

        the blue heron stands 

        one foot 

        on a slate roof 

 

???

   

snapshot poem 13 january 2021

 

sleep in grief

wake in grief 

     grief at the doorstep

    

Snapshot Poem 16 December 2020

 

each day slips away 

fish in deep water

   

I Don't Know How

  

Thanksgiving 2020

 

            thanksgiving 

                    so many 

                    empty chairs

 

****