The Intake Questionnaire for the Pain Clinic Ask if Pain Has Prevented Me From Having a Fulfilling Life

All year the line between inside

and out has been hard to cross

but spring opens the gate.

I hear the sun calling. I hear

the magnolia tree down the block

calling. I go to the tree. I go

to the grocery store for coconut

I Left My House Today ice cream.

I think I see an ex waiting

in the line outside when I leave

but she has a mask on and last

I heard lived in another city.

I don't want her to see me

because I don't want to go back

to being the person I was

when she loved me. I want

to keep who I am now

despite my deep exhaustion.

Time reinvents itself so often

I forget I've always lived

in this body, on this planet. Inside,

I fantasize about going back

to the patio chairs in the middle

of the still-sunlit street and calling

Libby, but after climbing the stairs

to our apartment's front door

I need the couch to hold me up.

I'm so used to shedding

my ambitions that it almost looks

graceful when I do it now. In all

my daydreams I have the energy

to call my friends. Rest my body

in a river of their voices.