After Long Illness

American Poetry Review, The, May/Jun 2005 by Ryan, Michael

father to son

The pain makes me tired,

as if I could fight it,

as if I can't not fight it

every moment now even asleep

pulling myself up a mountain hand over hand

on a rolled-out strip of pink crackly stuff

that I didn't know until after I awoke

was insulation made of fiberglass

that should have shredded my hands and chest

but didn't because I didn't know what it was

insulated because I was ignorant, convinced

I would get home because God gave me strength:

this was how the dream changed me

while I was both in it and having it:

I was completely exhausted,

no less exhausted because God was with me,

but God was with me

and I would get home

not taken upon waking into the pain again

which made me happy I'll die soon

and I want you to be happy for me, too.