Pain
We bury our pain in a secret crypt,
stealing out at night to worship or pray.
We insist our pain is nameless,
and therefore does not exist.
We hide our pain behind the crockery
on a high shelf,
convinced that when we lift it down
it will be less vibrant,
muted by dust and silken webs.
We put it in with the silver
which we use only on Rare Occasions,
removing it with the flatware now and again,
to polish and make inventory.
We wear our pain inside
a small locket around our neck.
We carry it as a stone hidden in our shoe,
or else as a thorn riding in our flank.
We fasten a red ribbon around our throat,
so that we do not speak or whisper.
~Dorothy Walters
stealing out at night to worship or pray.
We insist our pain is nameless,
and therefore does not exist.
We hide our pain behind the crockery
on a high shelf,
convinced that when we lift it down
it will be less vibrant,
muted by dust and silken webs.
We put it in with the silver
which we use only on Rare Occasions,
removing it with the flatware now and again,
to polish and make inventory.
We wear our pain inside
a small locket around our neck.
We carry it as a stone hidden in our shoe,
or else as a thorn riding in our flank.
We fasten a red ribbon around our throat,
so that we do not speak or whisper.
~Dorothy Walters