A WRITING WIFE'S FEVER DREAM
I look upon my husband, pain carved on his face
as he wrestles with a fitful sleep and
helplessness—that furtive ghost—slips into the room
humming the First Movement of Moonlight Sonata
and I wonder how something so beautiful
can be wrapped in something so mournful.
"Everything in this world is a slice of heaven
and a cup of hell," the ghost whispers to me.
And while I think about the hell
that is watching someone you love suffer,
I wonder if words have the ability to heal.
If I whisper, "Te Amo," in my husband's sleeping ear,
will he dream of the time before his body declared mutiny?
If he reads this poem, will the traitors disembark?
Or will they say I've mixed too many metaphors and
my words are all wrong and good luck placing them elsewhere?
A slice of heaven and a cup of hell
and some will offer such greeting card platitudes,
say you could not appreciate the deliciousness
of each precious moment if you didn't then
blister your heart with anxiety and pain and sorrow.
How I would like to pour boiling anger
down the throats of the unconcerned doctors
who dismiss my husband's pleas for help.
Maybe it's them or maybe it's the insurance
company and maybe it's all because
there is not enough gold on this ship.
Maybe words aren't always meant to heal
but to slice right through you,
and right now I want to release the full force
of my words, slice and slice
as I hum Moonlight Sonata.
I want to steer this ship of prayers
and cries for help right into the rocks,
sink into the depths of these words.
A ghost of myself, I slip into bed and press my body
against my husband's mournfully beautiful back,
kiss the spot between his shoulder blades
which stick out just a little too much now.
There are so many things I want to whisper,
but all I do is cry because I don't have the right words.
Lisa Lerma Weber is always dreaming. Her work has appeared in Brave Voices, Crepe & Penn, Ghost City Review, Green Light Lit, The Failure Baler, and others. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber