I keep hands covered with black leather gloves,
tell folks my arthritis requires their warm
texture. I lie to the woman I love,
tease how double limp is part of my charm.
Thursdays I avoid her, mute in my room,
fearing molars will crumble from my grit.
Fridays I fall in darkness like a tomb.
Alone I howl as in exorcised fit.
I never asked for agonized blessings,
never prayed for ecstasy, blinding pain,
rose odor of sanctity, confessing
my sins to a priest. I’m bleeding again.
I plead to my doctor, Please relieve me!
I’m crucified! He never believes me.
Roger Armbrust
April 10,
2013
