Maybe you’d never have heard of our particular plights—
Spino-fibularia, rosecutter’s ill – strange maladies
That guarded themselves harmlessly within our hearts
Until some irritant arose or some passion bottled up,
Unexercised. Too frail to lift even a page, we layered
Recliners and sofas with the thin coverlets of our bodies.
But, sick though we were, we refused to be the only ones
For whom the happiness formulas failed. We took to sea:
Bodies that once withered on their stalks now hardened,
Minds dulled by papered walls were sharpened on salt,
Took on a maritime gleam, built up their strength with blood
And conquest. Rocked by water, our fortunes telescoped
Along estuaries and harbors, and if sometimes you’d hear
A scream – it wasn’t ours. There was nothing wrong with us now.