Pain in the House

P

Eleanor Ross Taylor

Eleanor Ross Taylor

Feeling her head pick up her body,

question mark,

blurred misstamped question mark

snakes out of bed,

trying to jiggle unhappiness

as little as possible,

not to wake pain,

not to raise a shade,

if raising a shade in the dark wakes pain.

Under the shade the stars are awake, smiling —

ready to frown on unhappiness.

And the happiness of the unconscious

is scurrying already

from the knife-edge of light,

pain’s night-light,

waiting under the door across the hall.

Dread’s square hair stiffens,

her feet have corners,

trying to trick the stairs out of their creaking,

and the house out of groaning before coffee,

before resurrection.

Death before resurrection is hard;

breakfast and the stars belong first;

plenty of time to die all day

when everything does groan, and unhappiness

shakes itself out like a musty old mare

all over the house.

Dread says to herself: Serves me right

for leaving home, for learning to read;

serves me right for children and menopause

and cosmetic surgery, and elation in gin.

I must travel back

through the shade and the black holes and the frowns,

through drink and tampon and alphabet

to the kitchen and mother and dad and

the morning of the resurrection was the first day.

70

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