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He
affixes his instruments
to my body. And
he listens in,
attentively. And
he hears sounds,
sounds which he thinks
he recognizes.
Sounds which seem not
to disturb him. Then
he pronounces me
in perfect health.
And
he dismisses me
with the usual
reassuring
remarks: “Take care of this,
and beware of that,
and you will be alright.”
But
he is wrong.
Oh, so wrong. I
will not be alright. I
cannot be alright. I
cannot be in perfect health.
I
am sick.
I know it. I
am sick. The
sounds that he hears
inside me,
are not as he thinks them,
perhaps wants them,
to be. They
are not
the thumping
of my heart. Nor
the throbbing
of my veins.
But
echoes,
ancient echoes,
bouncing about
in a damp
and empty
place.
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