You may have seen her painting—
legs and feet stick out from
the canvas edge,
surrounded by ripples of water
or cascades of fabric,
people and objects of her desire
surrounding her in memories.
She paints on her back
from pain’s vantage point.
I used to lay like her
In the bathtub, on my bed
and wave my invisible brush in the air
Now with this body, laying on this couch
rendered motionless from exhaustion,
I write about my hands
angled out from forearms
which I know are attached
to elbows I can’t see.
Fingers resting on letter keys
describing people and objects of my desire
on a sheet of paper
I can see but can’t touch.
Writing on my back
Fatigue’s weight refuses
Movement invitations
Imagination
Sometimes a poem isn’t
something brilliant
It’s just the way I can say
what I see,
See things in what I say
when nothing else will do
when I can do nothing else
because I am captured by this body
and its stark refusal
to be anything but what it can be
after cancer
Sometimes a poem is like a painting
showing what the world is like
in that moment
when I can think of nothing else
but how it feels
to be rendered captive by this body
on loan in the world,
precious in all it can give me
Sometimes poetry is an effort
to reconnect with myself
to put together fingers and hands
and forearms and elbows
knees and bottom and back,
run them altogether with a spine
that threads itself into my skull
and allows my brain to make everything work
even when it feels like
nothing works at all
Poetry is my offering
of movement
and invitation
and imagination,
of invisible brushes
and typed pages.
However it sounds
it matters because
it comes from me.
These words and images are the property of the poet, Sharon Frances.
Do not use in part or whole without permission.