rabid scavengers of care thesickthelonelytheafraidtheold
Virginia Woolf in her essay On Illness said: ..illness is the great confessional
a childish outspokenness..truths blurted out which the cautious respectability
of health conceals
she was right i spoke in tongues of pain to anyone who would listen
the man who washed the filthyfloor the woman who brought the tray
of rubberchickens+greaseymash
hey anyone in there? you look alive but you are not nervesfrayed
too many scalpels to speak of do they really use scalpels on virginskin?
one doctor shouted: has she signed the releases?!
he knew i’d sue his doctorass if he killed my husband or worse maimed
him whose Viking splendour all heldentenor he should probably have been
an opera singer not a hockeydangler part-time wrangler friend to buffalo
illness has had its way with my repartee people run away when i enter a room
or act so weird i start blithering about disemboweled cats hey reader
you still there??
Virginia knew a thing or two of illness she walked into the river Ouse with
stones in her pockets all Ophelia +streaming hair dead at 59 her husband
Leonard at home with a pickled brisket waiting for his brilliant bride
and waiting
and waiting
not
__
Fall 2024 ..human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way..
..there is a virgin forest.. tangled.. pathless.. here we go alone.. (Virginia Woolf 1926)
songanddancegirl 