Of Water Made, to Water We Return

Of Water Made, to Water We Return
an original, free verse poem

I. 

I'm having trouble with showering,
arms raised to wash shoulder-length, 
water-heavy hair; with bending.

I'm having trouble with her poem, as
with fantasy novels. Cryptic, obscure,
alien and alienating, brow-knitting.

Trouble with straight standing, as with 
these twenty-something-dirty-blonde-story 
inflections, clipped “-ton” suffixes caught 
in the throat, and profound platitudes like
approval seals on her three-person selfie.

A drink in each hand--one coffee, 
one water with lemon-cucumber ice--she
trots her foil-plated locks off to process.

I stay behind, brief neighbor, to sit, 
scalp burning, my own foils foiling. Later, 
a brow touch-up stings eyelids to itching, 
replacing the usual trimmed-end scratch 
on my nape and collar.

I'm lighter headed but neck-weighty
on the drive home. Eyes water, follicles
fry, emaciated eyebrows pulse and fade. 

I'm having trouble with salon and spa,
as with why anyone would want to live
in L.A. if they didn't have to. 

I'm having trouble with branding and
niche building, as with popes' art.

Douse these fires.

II.

I'm trouble with a spoon and fork,
less so with a knife. Deadly strikes
are stains on my shirt front, and down.

Water is conquered and conqueror.
Life giving. But whose life? 
Life of what? Of water, not me.

My drinking problem starts with 
the cup, the vessel--not beverage--its grip. 
But what of the wet part? It is I who am taken 
in, for I do the malabsorption shake.

Wet or dry, I struggle with much less 
clothing than women with corsets, 
bum rolls, and skirts (wet or dry) 
to the toe had to endure. 
I struggle all the same.

This bod goes boddice-less 
and bobs with bra to belly 
shelf, not a babe's in 
either sense. Bust 
but not sculpture. 

My left hip, wrist, and neck 
joints gather us in, the floods 
that come, to the water, to intumesce

in my right thumb's base joint. 
My thenar eminence, the blind and the lame--
lamb's blood, spent ink in the hour of palm
--neither bleeting nor praying. 

No mercy. No script, just scribbles.
No takeaways or peace grants. Just scrap 
and muscle cramps.

Two weeks and the left knee's bulging,
back to front, calf to cap, quad to shin,
through and through.

Ballooned after two weeks off drugs,
the aqueous drug. Stop-gap pre-filled 
solution. The syringe barely reaches 
my sinews, adding water under skin 
in a burn-like bubble where 
a pocket of tadpoles learns 
to squat, stretch, and 
croak. They are now 
the most dexterous 
of me.

III.

I have trouble rising and staying 
risen. Suggestible, my skull base 
sags under a top-heavy brain, my fat 
noodle. Yes, that must be it. And laptop 
computing, from eye and finger to synapse.

Results: conquered. Rest eludes as I fall
asleep . . . pleu snorge cawgh nuff 
— contact sports? — Hum, drone, 
womp womp, pulsing house fan 
flow. Groaning grunts of 
stuff and nonsense. My 
vessel pours through 
another edgeless 
vessel. No longer 
on edge, I 
dissolve.

Air swells with humidity-
empty particles, compounding 
the gray blanket 
over the earth, reverberating through 
the filter, the vents, window-frame 
cracks, holey screens, the air our 
eaves own, the outdoor gas 
mixture, and up into the 
ceiling of 
this dull throw. 

The pointless, endless, homeless 
expansion becomes virtual oceanic 
abyss, imploding every living thing 
of too much air and water. Contact sport. 

As I nod off, sitting here, my fingers 
sear with the strain of their own joints' 
enveloping erosions.

Aflame, the hand knows best unnatural heat--
come temperate or scorching summer; dry, 
cool autumn; or ice-white winter. 

But rather than melt, the fascia
adhere in knots to the muscles.
Sticky and stuck, locked 
in place.

Dissolution--by fracture, 
fire or flood--has a recipe: Add 
whiplash to blood splash out the nose, 
extract thyroid node (with butterfly wing 
and body) by knife, erode bones of edges 
pressure molded from misfired orders 
to swell; crush and shiver into 
sulk-hulking slump. Stew. Re-
hash. Overcook. Ignore. 
Serve nothing and 
no one.

Clean-up: Have a 
drink of water. Splash some 
on your face. Breathe in. Out. 
Rub the brow. Flex the fist. 
Stretch. Straighten. 
Keep typing.

(No other contact sports, 
especially watery ones.)

written August-September 2015 by C.L. Tangenberg
on living with rheumatoid arthritis

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