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Staying Put
It happens every time.
I light the candles,
settle on my cushion,
and sit still.
A throbbing weight gets heavy in my breast.
Thick with sharp edges in every direction,
it radiates a physical kind of pain,
something with a hand that reaches up,
grabs my throat from the inside, and pulls down.
It hurts. Hard.
See, this is why I don’t meditate.
I blow out the candles,
leave the room.
This pain is like a middle-aged uncle
who only comes during holidays, thank God.
He’s lost in a world that only his mother
can navigate…she wipes the drool from his face,
puts the fork back in his hand without
missing a beat, continuing her story about the clerk
at the grocery store. He yowls with his mouth full
spewing mashed potatoes at everything.
Everyone pretends it’s not happening.
