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.
