by Bill Yarrow
The doctor said it was walking pneumonia
but Cid knew better. When Marguerite died,
that was trauma. Run over by a bus. "Jesus!
I'm suffering from trauma! I can see and hear.
I can feel and walk around. Even talk. I think
maybe I'm in some kind of walking coma.
One where I can remember but not exactly
remember, communicate but not really
communicate, exist but not fully exist."
Then one day all the symptoms vanished.
He stopped using, got his CDL, drove to Reno,
met a dealer, married her, even agreed to raise her kid.
It's possible to forgive the past its trespasses,
stop seeing the future as a threat, reimagine
the present as a goal. Resurrection—it happens.
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A version of this poem was published in Staxtes, a Greek Literary Review as "Resurrection Happens."
"Walking Coma" appears in THE VIG OF LOVE (Glass Lyre Press, 2016).
God, this is nice... I think I’m in a walking coma too... most of the time.
Good poem.
Put that last paragraph on the wall. Make a billboard out of it. *
"A kind of walking coma.
One where he could remember but not
exactly remember, communicate but not really
communicate, exist but not fully exist."
Good writing, Bill. I like. Strong way to close. *
Thanks, Steven, Gary, Jake, and Sam, for reading and commenting so favorably.
I found myself rereading this and then rereading it again, there's so much here, so much to imagine. *
Excellent *
Thank you, Paul and Christian. Appreciate your comments (and asterisks)very much.
I hope so. I want to believe, I just need to get out of the way.
*
"a walking coma" Yes. Insightful, ordinary, extraordinary. *
Thanks, Rene and Charlotte, for your excellent comments.
Nice work. Much enjoyed, especially that last stanza.*
Thanks, Gary!