590: Geography of Scars
"Geography of Scars"
Maria Mazziotti Gillan
“An art that heals and protects itself is a geography of scars.”
Wendell Berry
And though I have loved you for more than half my life,
Though we have grown into each other’s arms
So that when I am away from you,
I imagine you are with me, our lives,
Gnarled and pitted as the bark of our oak trees,
This illness has moved in with us, a dark presence,
A shadow that hovers behind us as we trace
The path of our ordinary days.
I sit in our den with my book in my hands
And hear you call me,
Know by the tone of panic in your voice
That something is wrong.
I find you standing stuck to the floor,
Help me, you say, and I try.
I push you from behind, touch your foot,
Hold a ruler out in front of you, all the things
That are supposed to help you to move, but don’t.
I bring you another pill and then we wait
Until the medicine starts to work
And you are able to walk a few feet to a chair.
I would moan and cry if it only it would not hurt you.
Instead I retreat into my book again,
Try not to see the map of our future
That even I can read,
Knowing its lines and angles lead to a place
Where I will trace the geography of my grief,
These scars that remain when you,
Whom I have loved for so long, are gone.
Maria Mazziotti Gillan
“An art that heals and protects itself is a geography of scars.”
Wendell Berry
And though I have loved you for more than half my life,
Though we have grown into each other’s arms
So that when I am away from you,
I imagine you are with me, our lives,
Gnarled and pitted as the bark of our oak trees,
This illness has moved in with us, a dark presence,
A shadow that hovers behind us as we trace
The path of our ordinary days.
I sit in our den with my book in my hands
And hear you call me,
Know by the tone of panic in your voice
That something is wrong.
I find you standing stuck to the floor,
Help me, you say, and I try.
I push you from behind, touch your foot,
Hold a ruler out in front of you, all the things
That are supposed to help you to move, but don’t.
I bring you another pill and then we wait
Until the medicine starts to work
And you are able to walk a few feet to a chair.
I would moan and cry if it only it would not hurt you.
Instead I retreat into my book again,
Try not to see the map of our future
That even I can read,
Knowing its lines and angles lead to a place
Where I will trace the geography of my grief,
These scars that remain when you,
Whom I have loved for so long, are gone.