Fissured

Several of my bones have splintered or

separated and been left to heal incorrectly

on their own, mostly in childhood. Of course

the analyst believes this to be symbolic

of my habitual denial of pain or, indeed,

vulnerability, but she cannot admit this directly.

She asks me leading questions like, am I truly

feeling the feeling of suffering, which I

find difficult to imagine. If I’m not feeling

my pain, then who or what is the me in my?

Instead, I announce that my partner comments

often that I never complain and rarely experience

side effects of a medication or symptoms

of an illness. By providing evidence for her

claim, I hope to lead her to accidentally provide

some reasoning. I know she believes this hope

for narrative arrangement, too, reflects repression

of some deep ache. Still, I imagine physical pain

as an intellectual relief, whereby thought stops

being a primary expression. I read that Asian

patients require less analgesic than the European

ones and wonder about what I want, my Asian

patience, against what I require. My nose broken

twice created a sort of suffocating zigzag,

permanent purple band along my bridge, so

light it is imperceptible to almost everyone.

An elbow to my face in front of a group made

them suddenly concerned, so I smiled to render

such disquiet unnecessary. I could not assume

their concern was real, which is to say lasting,

and I held, as I hold now, pain as ultimately

shallow, never indicative of anything but itself.