I’ve come masked to this carnival of confidences.

“That’s the problem,” she says.

The Harlequin and  Hellequin

have no place at this operating table.”

I think about leaving, but then remembering

that I have a lifetime membership,

secure my arms and armature hoping they won’t betray me.

But my reflexes are slow, and the effort

saves neither my face nor my fears from scrutiny.

The clock is a pulsing metronome that marks my silence.

Within this room,

time is the mugger of all invention.

I grope for the light switch that will illuminate the past

and fumble in the frayed pockets of my memory.

I try arranging words to describe

this juiced-up jukebox in my mind

but they spill out like the early onset on Alzrhymers.

Unanswered pleas,

Bandaged knees,

Hide and freeze,

Mother’s ennui

I randomly stack sentences like mismatched dominos.

but my pronouns are porous anagrams,

alternating between first person wired

and third person weird.

The verbs and voices are all irregular.

She cautions me not to paint with such broad strokes.

So today I carry only one strand of silk to create

Pointillist impressions of the past.

As I start to connect the dots of pigment, she interrupts.

“You say you want clarity, but you only bring me clever.”

Finally, finally, I feel the rising pressure of a deep moan

that escapes and a sharp breath loosens my paralysis.

The elasticity of my mind snaps,

and the emotions that threaten to drown me

pour forth.