There is no poetry in “Multiple Sclerosis.” It falls flat in the ear,
a siren in place of music and meter. Like the disease itself
in the body, it is a silence loud as a crow’s caw in the solitude
of a warm afternoon. It comes to this: listening to the way
muscles refuse the project of movement, to sad hands that once
grasped with strength and fervor, but now abandon that work for erratic
flailing, to a thought holding still and empty at the cusp of a word,
and all of this flattening into the clinical sound: fatigue—too early, too thick
in cell and marrow. Inclined as I am toward the ring of music and meter,
I despise “Multiple Sclerosis”: noise between body and poem.


One thought on “Multiple Sclerosis
  1. Meem, Deborah (meemdt)

    Wasn’t this al;ready posted?

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