MUTE
‘For oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive
mood’.
Vacant or pensive, vacant or pensive. Her head was full
of words how could that be vacant? But she thought of nothing in particular,
how could that be pensive?
She was full of language and phrases by other people who
could put them together. She read them. Devoured them. Took them in as water,
assimilated into her flesh.
She longed for the ability to tell her own story. But stuck
in mute silence she would never be the next Wordsworth, this she knew.
She flicked her eyes sideways. Left for yes. Right for no,
the nurse turned the page,
‘Pegasus, by Patrick Kavanagh’ she liked this one.
It was about flights of the soul, and being outside
yourself.
How cruel to have the heart of poet, trapped inside a
broken body with these great immovable hands.
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