*****

Recorded Reading (2:34): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/amzzop9elmznwqp7hxntv/31.10.2025-22.12.02.mp3?rlkey=hcclwo0u331udbu24l1el9rf0&st=3qb20p86&dl=0

*****

She Was Ill

She was ill. Her body could not stand
To its full height but she felt like a tree
On inadequate roots attempting
In its enormous height to balanced be

She was ill. She ached in every bone
And every single muscle she possessed
Even her skin was oversensitive
To the loose fabric in which she was dressed

Exhaustion claimed her e’en as though she had
Instead of sleeping climbed the whole night through
Ascending steeply mountainous terrain
During which no sweet moment’s slumber knew

Let but the languid air move slightly in
Her convalescent’s room and she was chill
And yet the very moment following
She stifled in oppression. She was ill.

Her arms and legs, an hundred pounds apiece
Lifting a glass would oft its contents spill
Yet lifted one but seldom for the lack
Of need to eat or drink, for she was ill.

A simple conversation was not so
Simple for her: projecting verbal sound
Necessitated much more strength than she
In her compromised musculature found

Her eyelids would not lift to let her look
Into the eyes of a kind visitor
And she could not unmoor her languid mind
To follow what her friend was telling her

She was ill. The world outside her blind
So vigorously went upon its way!
Able neither to wake for dread fatigue
Nor sleep for pain, she listened to the day

To squabbles, deals, persuasions, laughter, love
As ’twere a movie by the living played
And she but an incorporeal ghost
By whom no solid action may be made

She missed the concert, party, meeting, night
Of celebration, promotional tour
Gallery opening, festival, missed
Success’s swiftly definitive hour

Quiescent lying on her bitter couch
Yet grateful for the softness of its fill
Without even the strength regret to feel
About her blighted being. She was ill.

*****

The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level.

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