Insomnia
1
I’m tossing and turning beside my sleeping wife, who hardly stirs. In two days, she’s scheduled to have a tube inserted in a blood vessel in an arm or leg to allow the doctor to see into her heart. God’s love is unreliable. There might be signs of disease. There might be leaks. The heart might look as much in crisis as our poor mismanaged planet. The wonder isn’t that I can’t sleep but that anyone can.
2
I was standing by a tree as the dog did his business. The wind, which can reach deafening speeds here on the island, was uncustomarily still. Then a bird in the tree squeaked like a squeeze toy. I looked up. From wherever it was hiding in the leaves, the bird squeaked again, a sound seemingly designed more for comic effect than evolutionary advantage. Only later would it occur to me that we ourselves make weird noises when undergoing the secret torture of sad thoughts.
3
“Do you see the donut,” the cancer specialist asks, “or just the hole?” My eyes burn, though there’s only water in tears. Once cancer touches you, you belong to it, you’re marked with its herd brand. Yesterday, to the astonishment of tourists, a statue of the Virgin Mary in a 14th- century cathedral in Linz went into labor. Belief is contagious. And so, I lie in bed with the windows open, listening intently to the gregarious insects at ease in the dark.
About the Author: Howie Good’s latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.
Image Credit: Richard Nicolaüs Roland Holst “Vrouw Hogerhuis, zittend in bed” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
