Laura Grace Weldon
HAVING TROUBLE WITH A CORKSCREW RIGHT NOW
I carefully meter what little I drink
although I need relief more than ever,
grateful as I am to be here after
diagnosis with a rare progressive disease
plus some kind of congenital argument
between my heart and lungs, and now I have to see
another pricey specialist for neurological symptoms
which my dear doctor friend calls not good.
Why is so much wrong with my left side,
etymologically my “sinister” side,
my peace monger side,
my every-single-being-deserves-respect side.
Maybe this body is exhausted by
all the hate speech these last few years,
when even compassion is slurred
as “woke.”
Cork now screwed to shreds,
I pour wine through a strainer, the one I use
to rinse dry beans and sieve elderberries.
I sit with my glass, watch the way evening sun
slides its beams sideways, freeing the gleam from
trees and fences and junk cars. Night lowers itself
so incrementally it’s hard to tell when light gives way
to whatever darkness wants to tell us.