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<\/figure>Today we\u2019re reading my friend Diannely Antigua, her poem \u201cDIARY ENTRY #13: BEING SICK IS A ROMANTIC IDEA\u201d from her book GOOD MONSTER<\/em>. <\/p> quick note on formatting: I\u2019m not sure if this newsletter hosting service, which I will be exiting soon, respects stanza breaks. I use the Block Quote function to maintain enjambment. Anyway, this poem has no stanza breaks, but last week\u2019s poem<\/a> was formatting incorrectly. This makes me feel like my heart is made of hornets, and like I disrespected Dr. Byas, even tho it wasn\u2019t me, it was the Nazi-loving newsletter service<\/a> I will be exiting soon. Anyway, this poem has no stanza breaks. <\/em><\/p> DIARY ENTRY #13: BEING SICK IS A ROMANTIC IDEA<\/strong><\/p> It was the summer of pain, summer<\/p> of becoming the rhythm<\/p> of spasms down my cervical spine, <\/p> calling it a reunion of ache. I remember<\/p> the unbuttoned shirt felt like a grave, <\/p> and the grave like practicing the Bible<\/p> in a basement, or like being Achilles<\/p> in reverse. I was strong<\/p> from the ankles down, from my shallow<\/p> baptism in the Atlantic. As a child, <\/p> I\u2019d heard a story about an angel so beautiful<\/p> she was evicted from heaven by the others, <\/p> made to live out her days trapped in flesh, <\/p> confined to a hospital bed. I\u2019d like to pretend<\/p> God called on the phone every day\u2014<\/p> a worried Father\u2014or perhaps, <\/p> disguised as a nurse, brought her water<\/p> and pills. To say I\u2019m not afraid of dying<\/p> is to admit I want to be stared at<\/p> like something to lose. I thought I could<\/p> leave with the dignity any breaking woman<\/p> would want. I haven\u2019t been sleeping<\/p> or walking or kissing the people I love. <\/p> Sometimes my lips will graze an ear, <\/p> a freshly shaved neck. <\/p><\/blockquote> Right away, this poem reads like exactly how it feels to be sick, either physically or emotionally. I get my depressive bouts, where I can\u2019t respond to texts\/messages\/email and feel like the entire world and all I have to do in it is rapids after a rain storm. I also have a fun disease that sometimes makes it so that I\u2019m in so much pain I can\u2019t think and I can\u2019t walk without a cane or crutches (or hardly at all) for days on end. This poem reads like how those times feel. <\/p> Here is where I invoke Jos\u00e9 Olivarez\u2019s Line Break<\/em> interview (Apple<\/a> | Spotty<\/a>) again and say that Diannely treats sadness and pain with rigor<\/em>. This is maybe her greatest strength as a poet (Bob\u2019s too<\/a>, you can see why they\u2019re such good friends)\u2014treating sadness with rigor. The feeling I get reading Diannely\u2019s poetry isn\u2019t overwhelming, the pull-of-gravity-on-my-body has shifted sadness, though. Nor is it pathetic poetry or helpless poetry. The sadness is infused, like the world has been brined in it, but I don\u2019t always realize how<\/em> profound the sadness until an errant grain of Kosher salt flakes over my tongue. This is the kind of sadness I want to read about in poetry. <\/p> How many days do you feel like Achilles in reverse? What an image that is. How often do you want to be stared at like something to lose? That thought immediately put me back on stage, staring out at a crowd whose faces I can\u2019t see while the crash cymbal and ending chord of my band\u2019s song rings out. You ever had your spine spasm in rhythms? It sucks. What an image that is. <\/p> I used to romanticize being sick, man. Maybe I read too many books where someone is prescribed \u201cbeach.\u201d You can\u2019t introduce the Modernists<\/a> to anyone who hasn\u2019t had to pay their own rent<\/a> yet. Even younger than that, I\u2019d hear sports announcers talking about how tough Scottie Pippen was, taking all them charges in the 1998 playoffs. How tough and cool quarterbacks always looked, limping through a two-minute drill on a sprained ankle and winning the game anyway. Right fielders with grass stains up to their shoulders. Just before my kid was born, some drug company\u2014Tylenol or whothehellever\u2014ran ads where someone pokes their head in an office, tells their boss they gotta go home early, except SMASH CUT it\u2019s not an office, they\u2019re poking their head in their baby\u2019s bedroom. Voiceover: \u201cparents don\u2019t get a day off.\u201d Ain\u2019t that the truth. The pain still comes, though. <\/p> That\u2019s what the poems are for. <\/p> Sorry you got an email, <\/p> Chris<\/p>![\"Good](\"https:\/\/substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com\/public\/images\/ad529c87-2585-48e1-b9cf-df11f757e149_2843x3662.heic\")
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