Gripes

“Melancholy Embodied”

by A.M. Lynn (August 2020)

My body, betrayal is like
car hoses leaking in a drive,
ship hulls cracking at sea,
horses’ spines stabbing the riders.

My mind, failure is like
trash in the desert,
books misshelved,
paper notes burning.

My spirit, loss is like
waiting hours for pickup by dad,
defending against sis,
learning I’ve long strangled myself.

Author’s Statement:

On a recent night, I dreamed up a horse whose spine felt as if it was about to burst out of its back to impale me as I rode it. The hard ridge of vertebrate jabbed up into me. I was scared.

The dream was ridiculous. I grew up riding my father’s horses and ponies bareback (as in, without a saddle or blanket) without fear of impaling.

My fear was the translation of the threat from my own spine. In the dream, I existed simultaneously as the horse and rider. In reality, my back has been hurting nonstop for years now, and on the worst days, I feel as if any movement will destroy me.

Self-analysis inspired this poem, made up of memories and nightmares.

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“Health Cares”

by A.M. Lynn (August 2020)

I want a doctor

who listens to fees

who demands low me

to hold my plans

to write up hand

where meds will meet

where we will keep

I want a doctor