WEBVTT

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Seven.

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Dear Adrienne, I feel signified
by pain: from my breast bone

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through my left shoulder, down
through my elbow, into my wrist

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is a thread of pain.

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I am typing this instead
of writing by hand

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because my wrist
on the right side

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blooms and rushes with
pain, like a neon bulb.

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You ask me how I'm going to
live the rest of my life.

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Well, nothing is
predictable with pain.

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Did the old poets write of this?

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In its odd spaces, free,
many have sung and battled.

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But I'm already living
the rest of my life,

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not under conditions
of my choosing.

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Wired into pain, rider
on the slow train.

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Yours, Adrienne.

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