Poems by Various Accident Victims
At the Psychiatrist's Office
Amanda
Poems by Various Accident Victims
It was an accident.
It could have happened to anyone.
I’m staying put.
But not, I hope, in a cell.
Sure it’s theatrical.
But I was knocked out cold for a while.
But I’ll manage.
Now where did I put that skin and bone?
There is a very large charge.
My pain melts into a shriek.
But a miracle, nevertheless.
I get to keep my right foot.
My face bandaged,
legs in plaster.
Nevertheless,
I am the same man.
My nose is in here somewhere.
With my eye-sockets.
And some of my teeth.
And you should have seen my enemy.
What’s a lot of blood spilled
compared to the way I left him.
Out of the crunched metal,
a survivor.
For the teeth-gnashing crowd,
a sigh.
Pick the worms off me
and you’ll have your golden boy again.
Gentlemen, ladies.
I did not dye my hair red.
And I wasn’t the one
who wired my jaw shut.
Nor was it my eyes’ intention
to shove away the blur
to get at a smiling woman.
So doctor,
when does my body get to be
some kind of walking miracle?
And my spittle breath?
When does it go clear.
Please unwrap my hand.
I think I’ve found a use for it.
A phone-call.
And I know I have at least
one finger.
The question is
do I last it out,
or drop down into darkness
and not come out of it ever.
All the time,
gripping my wedding band
and its million or so
gold filaments of love.
A charge of “who am I?” –
no immunity in this court –
the hiatus between blood and nerve,
engaging in conversation,
an antigenic substance,
archaic, the porous,
when you put weight on it
it oozes sorrow –
he asks questions
as if seizing you by the throat –
his face haunts
like a camera with the ability
to form antibodies,
compressed and contracting –
whatever you mutter,
you cannot think of a better word,
don’t budge an inch
though your emotions will not hold together
and you keep spouting evidence
to which the past is attached like muscle,
brutally, embarrassingly, exquisitely specific –
you dare yourself
to extend toward beginning,
in a bid for the possessed.
to understand its own meaning –
it takes guts,
and antibodies
the wiles to escape a locked room
or beat back the mind’s intruders –
there is no real answer,
not world order, not good manners,
just a fear,
a magnified portrait,
a picture of yourself
that’s always being taken,
an old expression approaching from the south,
a trembling ardor,
all perceptions drained
from one person to another –
a potential explosion of one kind or another -
put an eye to the lens,
you feel stranded in your own renaissance,
the end of each thought
never an emphatic “no”,
just a glassy surface
and a reflection you can’t refuse,
shorn of its safety net,
in the kind of solitude
that’s oblivious to the one feeling it,
beginning with the fleshy parts,
ending up as successive sensations
suffering from too much breath,
a reaction between antibodies,
and dreams threatened from within –
with his probing,
no sensation is impartial,
everything transformed
into people and activities,
unsurpassed among
your voluntary and involuntary reactions.
Amanda - pulling your pony tail - not nice.
Josie, the temptation was too great. A Brady Bunch lunch box
and me with my brown paper bag. I apologize now
though I celebrated then.
Rose, I'm sorry I stole your candy bar.
Anna -- the list is too long.
June, it was a kiss I took. You considered it a theft.
I'm on your side now. Serves me right for looking back
Amanda - you had your pony tail shorn and I made fun of your new cut.
A year later, all the girls were begging for just that style.
My bad. And my bad for the incident at the mall.
What incident? Choose one from a thousand.
I've more regret than there were shoe stores.
Valerie, it was me. I called you up, breathed heavy in your ear.
I'm so contrite. But I wasn't really a sex maniac.
And Shanna. I'm also contrite. Same reason.
And I know you dearly wanted a sex maniac.
Forgiveness from Simone - where do I start?
Left you hanging. Left you stranded.
Left you for the who'd-have-believed-she-once-was-gawky Amanda.
Ah Amanda - I've remorse by the tear-loads.
Your body and your innocence - such cross-purposes.
Clare, that was me. Third whistle from the back seat
of Kirby's convertible. Shame. Shame. Shame.
And Louise, yes I should have returned the Grand Funk
album I borrowed,. My mother begged me to.
Karen, I still don't like freckles but I'm not blaming you any more.
That's a start at least.
Amanda - great thighs but boring as dirt -
yes I said it. Believing it's another story.
June, I really did have to study.
Clare, I shouldn't have stuck you with the check.
Rita, the engagement's still off but if you really do want the ring...
Amanda - college did wonders for you -
that never came out of my mouth, more's the pity.
I've always been in love with you.
Never said it though. This sorry is for me.
Roberta, look I know I didn't call.
And Jessica, I did call but that really wasn't me.
Kate, everyone said we were the perfect couple.
Everyone but us. How wretched that I wasted your time.
Amanda, this poem is for you. Too bad you'll never see it.
I'm a reformed man. No more pulling pony tails.
Like me, they're always attached to something.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Transcend, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Hawaii Pacific Review and Clade Song.
