Heliotrope
The striations are
As in stone
Veins
And spiderwebs
And electricity
All of the colors
And all of the pain.
They ask you to define the pain on a scale of 1 to 10.
And the laughter that escapes
Me
Might be loud
And frightening
But it’s really nerves
Just a mawkish awful reaction
To a hilarious method
For putting pain in context
Filing it in a cabinet
On a floor
That can be reached by a clean, metal elevator
or a folder
Color coded
By pain
It is tympanic this pain
And fluffy on the outside
Like cotton
But dense in the middle
Like dark matter in space
It is friendly
Like a handshake grip too tight
And too long
And accompanied by a long-toothed smile.
It is unfriendly
Like a silent
Evening between husband and wife
Spent in separate rooms.
or the step of a stranger
behind you
who matches his pace to yours
and who ducks out of sight
as you give in
and glance over your shoulder.
It is a smooth hard
Like a bloodstone
And crumbling soft
Like chalk.
It trembles and quivers like a poisonous jello mold
delectably horrid
Like a chicken liver mousse spoiled
on the table
out all night long in the heat.
I want to take the kind doctor’s face
And wordlessly knead it in my palms
Until he cannot bear it any longer
The awkwardness swallows his concern
And he has to relegate me to the file color of madness
For that is where this pain belongs
Inside the down of a chicken armpit
Up the arse of a clock
Climbing the links of a faux gold chain like
An inexplicable water droplet
Its brother following dutifully in a beautiful
Carousel
Of agony.
This pain
I say
To the doctor
Is Heliotrope.
then I flap my arms
And scream.
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