This, from Viola, the opposite of bad walls

I Will Not Miss These Bad Walls


With this terrible vinyl paper
Spread lumpy, deteriorated
Made to look like a formic potato
Without the benefit of starch
Impossible to lean on, punitive
With patterns of angry insects

I will not miss the jigsaw puzzle
With the missing pieces, spread
Like a rash across a tiny table
Irises done over and over then put away
Forgotten and pulled out of the drawer
I will not bear it anymore

I will not miss the silent way
The waif janitress hangs
Her enormous arachnid head
With those heroin varicose legs
And arms, a chicken rib’s width
I will not miss the idle chatter
Of lazy secretaries who ignore the sick

Or the tardiness of doctors
Or the crate of pills to sort
Some days more accurately than others
I will not miss the questions unanswered
Or the gripping fear of earthly loss
Or the brave bluing that fails to brighten

They say this is a place of healing
Better put, this is a place where parts
Are lost and scars cultivate and lumpy
Tumors grow, are poisoned and retreat
It is a sarcophagus shellacked with toxins
Some will live and some will go so quickly

I will not miss the fine fuzz
Of lost hair, the soft stubble of grief
The maddening passivity of defeat in some
The trouncing determination of others
And always, the cheerful face I can’t wait
To peel like an orange so I am real as before

I will be happy to reclaim my love
And his joyful, change-jangling electricity –
How his eyes shine with discoveries
I wait eagerly for the first laugh
That will erupt like a mud pot bubble
The way he heaves with a silent grin

I look forward to the reanimation
The warming of limbs, the settling
Of his filmy digestion, the retreat
Of his haze, O soon, please, his first morning
When we really know we are the lucky ones
The first flinging of his arms around me

I will wash him again, without the tubes
I will love him delicately until exuberance
Tingles and a heartbeat samba begins again
With a flourish, I will show him the tiny bird
In the new red maple tree, the patient bird
Who waited all this time for spring

© 2009 Viola Weinberg