To Let the Flaming Pain
(from The Street)


A cup of tea,
from an old copper kettle,
and something to eat, she said
as things rattled and flew
from cupboards and drawers,
boxes, cans and jars.

He felt like a gentle,
powerful tornado
had picked him up.

All he had wanted was one beer,
and here he was watching
the fluid movement
of this fleshy woman
as she prepared him tea,
for God’s sake.

Wife and child dead,
house taken by the bank,
he had lived in his car,
long enough for the cash
to run out,
cash for gas and food
cash for booze—
I’m floating over the pain booze—
floating up and over,
and then, like someone holding him
by the seat of the pants,
dangling with arms and legs kicking,
dropped him
onto the hard cement
of reality, booze.

What a macabre dance
with the devil that was,
as the money ran out,
the hangover ran on,
and he was sick from the stale taste
of his own bewilderment.

Oh yes, he liked the tea
he answered her questioning eyes,
feeling awkward
with conversation
except to himself.

The words croaked
and a large swollen
infected feeling pushed
into his throat
and lodged there
making his eyes water.

Then she was kneeling
beside him
taking him by the shoulders
and enveloping him in the warmth
of her spongy arms
and big soft breasts.

It’s okay to feel the pain
she whispered into his ear.

He resisted at first,
sat stiff and tried to focus
on not feeling
but then he relaxed,
let his body be rocked,
let the flaming pain
tear at him, enfolded.

That’s good, she said.
__________
4-2000