I dream of the ancient heart of east Asia.
The nobel mountains of China looming overhead.
Their imperial peaks shrouded in heavy mist. Luscious earth and dense forests, the color of jade, surrounding me.
Fresh winds, exhaling through the mountain pass, dancing in my hair.
The smell of bamboo, dew and tender greens slips through the air.
An epiphany of Eden. A discovery of the divine. A flash of felicity. A revelation of paradise

,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)



<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares

As the rain teems outside the bathroom window, pelting like bullets against the double glaze,
I look into the mirror and see that huge scar extending around my right side, pink and shiny. It moves independently top to bottom, once cut never to be the same again.
Bulging unnaturally, there is a cannon ball within. Somewhere twixt the decapitated kidney and the sliced pericardium there lies a presence which I can never ignore. Solid and intrusive it inhibits movement and gives perpetual discomfort. It was never there before the operation, it has always been there since.

Gazing up into the 77 year old eyes I hate what I see, where there should be the  gleam of victory having vanquished the foe, instead I see the beggarly hallmarks of a victim.
The pallor, the network of suffer lines around the eyes. The lifelessness and ague of expression, the absence of vigour and the lack of will, of endeavor.

Not always is this so.
On good days I spring out of bed with the early light of dawn, smother the awareness of the cannon ball with two Panadol, swallowed with rainwater from the tap, prior to cleaning my teeth.
Striding down the hallway accompanied by the scampering cat, (leading me indelibly toward her bowl for food).
Cracking open the tin box and performing the ritual of the morning pill take… (6 with milk)
A cup of scalding hot tea, strong, sugared, with a touch of milk.
Then off to work with purpose, anesthetized against the ****** thing. Anesthetized against the negativity.

All my life I’ve been physical, proud of my muscular ability to achieve anything I set out to do.
My wife once said to me, “Marshal you never ask yourself whether you can actually do anything… you just do it!”
Those were the days!
Now I attack jobs, on the good days, and convince myself that something of the old spirit remains …and it does, the thighs pump, the hands, dexterously create…. The project grows and the spirit within soars….
Alas, two hours down the track with the cannon ball weighing like a tonne of lead in my gut and the wondrous physicality expired, I haul my weary self up the hill with the sure knowledge that I can no longer hack it.

Somewhere, in the twilight of my days, I have to come to terms with the limitations.
Celebrate the good and accommodate the other.
For I have faced the ****** foe and survived…and for this I must elevate myself....and be supremely and positively, grateful.
For I live and love...For what more can a man ask?

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki, NZ
25 August 2022