• Henlo Gang SEEKERS Freedom Writers

    Part One

    Chapter :


    The day after father left me in bed till dusk,
    when the sun’s rays had penetrated
    through greater things than concrete and cloth,
    Dr. Jacobsen again paid me
    the fares of attention and companionship.

    The balled end of a thermometer
    was on the stand beside me.
    Still warm if touched, its dial could read
    no more than one hundred and ninety degrees,
    yet it was that very limit
    the heated dose of mercury shrank from slowly
    as it regained the room’s mid-October chills.

    Dr. Jacobsen knocked at the door and made –
    at my indifferent grunt of approval –
    twenty paces in from the doorway.

    “I am Dr. Jacobsen.”
    [In a way of secondary introduction,
    to strengthen a hypothetical friendly bond.]

    -Yes, I know who you are.
    [In a way of irritation,
    to obliterate such attempts of bonding.]

    -Your father spoke of me?

    it is my habit to listen in at the door
    when a call careens his way.
    I know you,
    you are the black doctor:
    messenger of death.

    -I bring not news;
    I export in place of return.
    Your father, the kind Mr. Faust –

    -Do not dub him kind!
    Be it owing to the salt bestowed upon your breast
    or for humbleness!
    There is no man with blacker leaves,
    fruits more bitter,
    a stem further on principle of the aged bell-ringer…

    -… Yes. Our meeting previously was unsettling,
    I’m sure.
    Shall they begin anew?

    More at ease on speaking terms
    of his choosing, he began questioning.

    Indifferent to all as by depression,
    I took the leave to clear my head.

    “What have you?
    What of your condition
    do you know?

    -I have problems.
    I am going to die.

    -Why is that?

    -My heart bears fruit where it musn’t:
    a grape the stability of stone
    where space must hold.

    -Does it hurt?

    -Does it hurt he asks!

    -…Sorry…The tumour… I am told
    anesthetic is among the ingredients
    of your meals.

    I swallowed a glob of salivated whimper,
    which shot up at the touch of his conceptions,
    before proceeding:

    “…I must hurt.”

    His sight cut
    the tremors of emotion
    swathing my face.

    His hand met his chin
    and the first massaged the second
    with absent thought.

    “How do you fear?”

    -I fear with the great known
    and the little unknown.

    -How do you love?

    -I love with sentiment
    the eyes and hands of brethren.

    -How do you fall?

    -I fall with the parting yearn
    of dusk and dew
    into the abyss of space.
    I hit the cauterized wound
    and bleed the atrophied body.

    -Must you hurt?

    -I must for without hurt
    one cannot taste the scent of the foliage.
    Without hurt
    one cannot run the field
    and stumble to meet the brush.
    Without hurt
    the agony is left to game and soul.

    He tucked his hand
    from chin to pocket
    and left it there.
    I took the tired breath
    and he the complexion of my chest.

    "Is it black in the dome?"
    hollow for the bone?

    -It is as tar and ice.
    The lighter bone of bird.
    The burden of gold, in shape of a world,
    in place of a heart.

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