Seven.
Dear Adrienne, I feel signified by pain: from my breast bone
through my left shoulder, down through my elbow, into my wrist
is a thread of pain.
I am typing this instead of writing by hand
because my wrist on the right side
blooms and rushes with pain, like a neon bulb.
You ask me how I'm going to live the rest of my life.
Well, nothing is predictable with pain.
Did the old poets write of this?
In its odd spaces, free, many have sung and battled.
But I'm already living the rest of my life,
not under conditions of my choosing.
Wired into pain, rider on the slow train.
Yours, Adrienne.