University of Northern Iowa

The Subject of My PainAuthor(s): Barbara AndersonSource: The North American Review, Vol. 270, No. 3 (Sep., 1985), p. 16Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124640 .

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BARBARA ANDERSON

THE SUBJECT OF MY PAIN

for my therapist

First of all it is not an object. I put my finger on the center of an imaginary lightly dotted square like a road map's D-5, parallel to my hip bones.

It doesn't smell like anything except maybe a place where a rainstorm has evaporated on black asphalt.

My son's been there, but he was too small

to remember. We used to share the same symbols

for mountain peaks and time zones. He was smaller than a green fist

of space set aside for a park. We were healthier together.

Once I had a lover who said he could feel it like a spider. His mother was a suicide so I believed him.

A one-car, high-speed, late-night accident. I held my breath

while coming. I didn't want him to know too much

about me, to peel back the fabric of skin & lace & web.

To know the exact spot.

I know you think I'm not being specific enough when addressing the subject of my pain. That I'm not saying Dear Pain:

you are useful in my love.

I've done the other exercise for pain five times today and it still comes out the same.

The right hand holds

all the good memories, all the ex-pretty, the ex-years,

the mock-empty Christmas gifts

department stores showcase in their windows.

The left hand rattles

the dull silver of the train; the noise the pain makes

as it grinds over the track

can lull a race track loser to sleep with only train fare home.

I swear, for a small amount

of morphine, for the liquor-slicked throat of anyone, for the flesh and the light, I'd retreat into the tunnel.

The pain which is dedicated to me would perfectly fold

into itself, and we would both sleep side by side

like indifferent parallel necessary mates

navigating our way across the country.

16 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW/September 1985

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