Thylias Moss

These are the circumstances of my headache,
my finding myself in the culture of response
through pain

            —maybe because of the way I age:
            the same skin since birth, but now
            it doesn't cover my bones as well

            —in particular there is tension
             at my clavicle

                     (less useful cleavage)

            —in particular the looseness of skin
               a man once adored seems unnatural

as should responding to everything through

degress of hurt, grief over what to me 
are shadows  on the news
             —my peculiar
             muses: waifs, amalgamations of losses
             of forms of trust

             —that hurts, that smarts

to occupy all my senses with what so many possibilities 
of what so many someones have become

For me, right now out of 300 cable channels
I cannot access Columbo or Mr. Spock,

their way of getting inside my head to soothe,
to bring me relief that is real

even if they are not:

and so it is Columbo and Spock are not now
on demand, so neither is relief

and my headache remains
a kind of proof of the seriousness
of what is locked in my brain,

everything tucked there, fusing there
into a feeling so tremendous it hurts.

I feel the pain of connecting everything.

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