Migraine (NaPoWriMo Day 8--late)

No thing with feathers

Perches here, thank God

I wouldn’t have strength

For a that tune never stops

No—tonight those Boots of Lead

Are back, and I am wrecked solitary again.

If I could learn to make

That plank in reason finally break

I would be finished

and I wouldn’t care

If I ended knowing or not

Here—or Then—Or There

*****

I didn't get this up in time because battled a tension migraine all night.  Yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt invited us to rewrite a famous poem and make it our own.  I chose Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' is the thing with feathers"  and "I felt a Funeral, in my Brain" to help me handle the pain.

Image: Picasso's "Head of a Woman"

Present

"Woman with crossed arms" Picasso

A thousand small hurts
tenderly tied with ribbon
of sharp rusty wire

alone in the dark
unopened and indignant
plot quiet revenge

This prompt is loosely based on one or more of this week's prompts at Big Tent Poetry.

Pain

Manipulation

of memory, the genius

of pain. The body

bends too easily

to accommodate.

The psyche

promptly imitates

such hospitality

of nerves and tissue and ligament,

thus completing

the fallacy.

The self detects no deceit.

Intruder becomes

pampered guest

then

companion

then--

most cruel of all--

family.