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      December 1, 2015TiredAnele Rubin

      i
      I am tired of the Merck Manual
      the Journal of the American Medical Association
      Johns Hopkins, Memorial Sloan-Kettering
      Boston Women’s Health Coalition
      diagrams of the endocrine system
      lists of danger signs
      the way to check each mole
      each breast, each node
      how to know
      when the joint swelling
      or the leg swelling
      when the mood swings
      or the panic
      are more than just normal
      fluctuations.
      I am tired of clinical trials
      and chemical imbalances
      and little white pills
      in small amber bottles
      with white plastic lids
      you have to press or squeeze
      while turning.
      I am tired of the Latin names
      and popular misconceptions
      experimental procedures
      herbal remedies.
      I am tired of the worst-case scenarios
      the normal aging process
      debilitating illness
      the mind-body relationship
      autoimmune responses
      placebos and control groups
      the respiratory system
      the cardiovascular system
      white specks on the fingernails
      tingling in the hands or feet
      loss of sensation
      short-term memory loss
      short circuit in the brain
      hematoma, hemoglobin, serotonin
      accelerated heart rates, normal deviations
      serious reactions, genetic mutations.

       

      ii
      I was sitting in the chair near the window
      thinking
      if we did not have bodies
      when the sky seemed to enter
      the room.
      I am tired of the complications
      of this body-having.
      I think we’ve taken on
      more than we can handle.
      If I try I can hear the creek water gurgling
      and the mother swallow speaking to her babies
      in the nest above the window
      and in the far distance
      a dog is barking
      all else being quiet
      except inside
      the sounds
      a live body
      hears itself make
      and now gentle rain
      hitting the grass,
      the roof, the window sill.

      from #49 - Fall 2015

      Anele Rubin

      “I write because a mare puts her heavy head on my shoulder and the beaver sitting on shore gnaws and gnaws the bark off a stick and the moon is swimming in the dark ripples of the pond. I write because my mother cannot tell me again how she hid behind the cellar door to eat the bonbons she’d told the grocer to put on her poor mother’s bill, or how the kids in school would ask her again and again where she lived just to hear her Lithuanian accent turn ‘L Street’ into ‘Hell Street.’ I write because my sister’s voice grows fainter every day and a three-year-old asks me to play with him. I write because the sky is constant and ungraspable and thoughts disappear so quickly if you don’t hold onto them. I write because I want to hold on, to hold, to savor. I write because of birth and death and how ignorant we are. I write because I want to see what’s going on inside, I want to ask myself some questions.”

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