Lesley Yalen

-ALGIA

-ALGIA

I.

A bear, after being attacked, is possessed by involuntary tremors,

then entirely fine. Come, step on my toe—really stomp it.

I’ll lie here in the woods a while.

II.

At a rest stop I called my mother. “I’m coming home.”

Calling all mothers on their numbers.

Then a man offered me the penny he’d just minted.

“I’m getting home,” I said. “I’d hazarded,” said he.

III.

Diagnosed with nostalgia by a generalist,

I frantically flipped through the Nostoi

looking for sailors who’d back me up on being well-loved

or beaten. The difference is whether you suffer from

my- or hyper-opia, assuming that you suffer at all.

In the latter case, my case, you have an inability to focus

on near objects so you stay far away from home.

IV.

A pathogen has gotten into me. Given me the shakes.

Making it difficult to dial the number. If I had any

empathy at all I’d shake it off. I’d be nice on your nerves.

For whatever you have now will soon be mine.

V.

I don’t remember neglecting or being neglected.

So you see there’s no clear source to refer to,

no way to graph the levels of her loves against

the levels of mine. I’d like to go back in time.

I’d like to wake up and be home and know I’m home.

VI.

Of all the possible ways to get home I chose the car, but the car is moody heading

South. The mechanic told me don’t even bother. The neurologist took a baseline

reading and apparently my hands recanted. I memorized the training scale for

dressage: imagine me arriving on horseback. Beyond reproach.

The mechanic gave me directions for the other direction and it took me several

hours to right myself.

VII.

On stage I was a young man killed in a volley of friendly fire.

A short-run, low-budget, one-woman show.

I didn’t mind the toy machine gun in my face as long as I

was the other guy too. I was a method actor.

I drilled down to get the tears.

VIII.

At this point, I’m too old to be crying “Alzheimer’s.”

I should remember others.

The person next to me has a moaning headache.

“I’ve had this for a long time,” she says. “Something to do with the foreign air.”

I imagine how plain my brainscan would look next to hers.

I am moved to offer analgesics.

IX.

The problem is the enormous surface area.

I haven’t seen you in a long time, but I always imagined what I was feeling

all over my skin could be traced back to you, like when an elevator jerks

and there’s a small orgasm somewhere in the building or when

a soldier pops a can of Coke, and balloons lift off.

X.

It’s always followed by flowers and applause. Turns out there are a lot of scared children

out there to project themselves onto my monologues. “Get here before my disability runs out!”

always gets a good laugh. I honestly didn’t know it could run out.

XI.

I’m home. I’m almost home.

Just warning you. I could be home pretty soon.

And we agreed it’s better if you expect me.