I don’t know
exactly what it is.
There are terms
that could be gibberish,
two languages knocked together
to form a disease,
an affliction of the mind
or fluid in the lungs.
I got a list of ailments
as long as a scroll of parchment,
lolling on the floor
like a tired dog’s tongue.
Often people ask, ‘what is wrong?’
They expect you to have
something wrong with you,
a problem that rises
like the sun on the horizon,
or floating like a lost bottle
way out to sea.
If it is just a headache, it is that,
just a headache.
Would I not know
if the issue was worse?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps it is the not knowing
that kills you, or renders you helpless.
It is sad to know this will come,
this bizarre helplessness,
either in a ripple of seconds
or the space between seasons.