Linda A. Cronin
From Dream Bones
Dream Bones
In my dreams, I still see my bones
as they once were - long and lean,
stronger than the steel that now supports them.
They formed my body, graceful and slender,
racing across the blacktop
like a gazelle.
They shine like white marble
with a hint of icy blue,
the blue that appears
when some thing is too white,
so pure, it makes your teeth ache.
Now, my bones sway in the darkness
like willow branches in the wind,
curving and twisting
without the strength to stand tall.
My limbs like rivers wander
this way and that,
without direction or purpose.
My bones crumble
under the daily stress and strain,
pressure chipping away at the surface
leaving a trail of crumbs behind.
Braces appear overnight,
like ivy clinging to the fence, thriving in spring.
And, like a scaffold on a decaying building,
they shore up bones too weak
to stand alone or support the body
dependent on them.
When the doctor compares x-rays and scans,
my bones seem to have vanished,
melting like vapor until only
a shadow remains.
In my dreams, I still see my bones
as they once were - long and lean,
stronger than the steel that now supports them.
They formed my body, graceful and slender,
racing across the blacktop
like a gazelle.
They shine like white marble
with a hint of icy blue,
the blue that appears
when some thing is too white,
so pure, it makes your teeth ache.
Now, my bones sway in the darkness
like willow branches in the wind,
curving and twisting
without the strength to stand tall.
My limbs like rivers wander
this way and that,
without direction or purpose.
My bones crumble
under the daily stress and strain,
pressure chipping away at the surface
leaving a trail of crumbs behind.
Braces appear overnight,
like ivy clinging to the fence, thriving in spring.
And, like a scaffold on a decaying building,
they shore up bones too weak
to stand alone or support the body
dependent on them.
When the doctor compares x-rays and scans,
my bones seem to have vanished,
melting like vapor until only
a shadow remains.
Copperdaze
Standing at the supermarket checkout
I see the headline proclaiming The Arthritis Answer,
a promise magnets and copper, magical medals
to cure the crippling disease.
The year I turned ten,
my knuckles swelled, red
overripe raspberries,
my fingers curved like fish hooks.
Doctors and therapists strapped my hands
in elaborate contraptions of force and resistance,
bars and rubber bands pulled the fingers straight,
tried to force the wrist to rise.
My hands resisted their correction.
The deformities increased while I slept,
while I played. My fingers curled
into my palm, outlaws seeking refuge
in their underground hideout.
My wrists refused the pressure
to move, frustrated the therapists,
all sure they could tackle the problem.
Still I wanted to believe.
Each morning of that tenth summer, I slipped
the glowing copper bracelets onto my twisted hands.
I believed in the metal’s power
with more confidence than I ever
instilled in the Tooth Fairy or Easter Bunny.
I waited to feel the healing fire
from the thin bands, probably nothing more
than some imitation Indian bracelets
I found at a campground’s general store.
At night I dreamed I would wake
to find my hands smooth and supple,
my pinkie’s curve the only reminder.
The cashier holds out my penny change,
and I stare at my hands, my knotted fingers
tell their own wordless story
it took years to learn. To understand,
to discover the real power,
the true alternatives, the ones that let me
brush my teeth, cut my food, simple things
no one thinks twice about. I stop
and praise those days when copper held me
in its spell, offering relief to an un-fixable problem.
I put the grocery bag into my cart
and turn to leave.
published in The Journal of New Jersey Poets
published in Wordgathering
Standing at the supermarket checkout
I see the headline proclaiming The Arthritis Answer,
a promise magnets and copper, magical medals
to cure the crippling disease.
The year I turned ten,
my knuckles swelled, red
overripe raspberries,
my fingers curved like fish hooks.
Doctors and therapists strapped my hands
in elaborate contraptions of force and resistance,
bars and rubber bands pulled the fingers straight,
tried to force the wrist to rise.
My hands resisted their correction.
The deformities increased while I slept,
while I played. My fingers curled
into my palm, outlaws seeking refuge
in their underground hideout.
My wrists refused the pressure
to move, frustrated the therapists,
all sure they could tackle the problem.
Still I wanted to believe.
Each morning of that tenth summer, I slipped
the glowing copper bracelets onto my twisted hands.
I believed in the metal’s power
with more confidence than I ever
instilled in the Tooth Fairy or Easter Bunny.
I waited to feel the healing fire
from the thin bands, probably nothing more
than some imitation Indian bracelets
I found at a campground’s general store.
At night I dreamed I would wake
to find my hands smooth and supple,
my pinkie’s curve the only reminder.
The cashier holds out my penny change,
and I stare at my hands, my knotted fingers
tell their own wordless story
it took years to learn. To understand,
to discover the real power,
the true alternatives, the ones that let me
brush my teeth, cut my food, simple things
no one thinks twice about. I stop
and praise those days when copper held me
in its spell, offering relief to an un-fixable problem.
I put the grocery bag into my cart
and turn to leave.
published in The Journal of New Jersey Poets
published in Wordgathering
Diagnosis
Waiting in the exam room,
I imagine the x-rays,
clean and stark,
harsh black and white images
edges clearly delineated.
Here — good. There — bad.
Negative and positive
outlined purely.
Defined by light. By rays.
So when the doctor hangs
the x-rays before me,
I’m not prepared.
Before me a world of
shadows. Clouds of gray.
Edges smudged.
As if a child’s eraser smeared
the images. Sweat blurring
the lines. The doctor explains.
Shows the outline that creeps
beyond the border
until it slips away.
Black and white,
negative and positive,
into uncertainty bleed.
published in The Healing Muse
Waiting in the exam room,
I imagine the x-rays,
clean and stark,
harsh black and white images
edges clearly delineated.
Here — good. There — bad.
Negative and positive
outlined purely.
Defined by light. By rays.
So when the doctor hangs
the x-rays before me,
I’m not prepared.
Before me a world of
shadows. Clouds of gray.
Edges smudged.
As if a child’s eraser smeared
the images. Sweat blurring
the lines. The doctor explains.
Shows the outline that creeps
beyond the border
until it slips away.
Black and white,
negative and positive,
into uncertainty bleed.
published in The Healing Muse
Some Days
Some days come without instructions,
missing diagrams and unlabeled parts.
Those days when Piece D no longer slides into Slot E,
and Piece F goes AWOL altogether.
When pain rolls in like banks of fog,
and the days blur together,
the reception fuzzy. I try
to answer the apparent questions
infiltrating my days.
Years earlier, when you folded me into your arms,
the last of your four children, hours old,
snow encasing us in a world
turned pure and silent,
you never imagined days like this,
the blessing of not knowing the future.
The nights you dream of days spent
at the beach, building castles,
days without illness or pain
lead you forward, tantalize you
into rising up and brushing off the dust.
Now, years from that day, Mom, you stand by
my side at those times without instructions,
having abandoned the pieces and slots.
Tugging my hand as the waves surge
and drive across the sand,
a steady force climbing into the night
you urge me to wait, to continue,
to focus on the seasons to come,
to stand strong and proud
when the waves wash over me
and the sand disappears
from beneath my feet.
Some days come without instructions,
missing diagrams and unlabeled parts.
Those days when Piece D no longer slides into Slot E,
and Piece F goes AWOL altogether.
When pain rolls in like banks of fog,
and the days blur together,
the reception fuzzy. I try
to answer the apparent questions
infiltrating my days.
Years earlier, when you folded me into your arms,
the last of your four children, hours old,
snow encasing us in a world
turned pure and silent,
you never imagined days like this,
the blessing of not knowing the future.
The nights you dream of days spent
at the beach, building castles,
days without illness or pain
lead you forward, tantalize you
into rising up and brushing off the dust.
Now, years from that day, Mom, you stand by
my side at those times without instructions,
having abandoned the pieces and slots.
Tugging my hand as the waves surge
and drive across the sand,
a steady force climbing into the night
you urge me to wait, to continue,
to focus on the seasons to come,
to stand strong and proud
when the waves wash over me
and the sand disappears
from beneath my feet.
| Linda is available for readings, interviews, workshops and school visits Email Linda |
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