He tells me the sickness in my lungs

is sadness.

“Sadness about what?” I ask.

There are so many possibilities, but only one

I do not want to name.

He shakes his head and smiles, his eyes twinkling,

as though it is all a game with clues

and secrets to be unglued

or unfolded from origami disguises.

There are answers no one else can give us.

There are questions never to be asked.

My stuttering energy master feints

Again, and I must find my own centre—

A place from which I can block and duck and weave

without falling.