There She Is

Painting by Diane Trembley


There She Is


When I go into the garden,
there she is.
The specter holds up her arms
to show that her hands are eaten off.
She is silent because of the agony.
There is blood on her face.
I can see she has done this to herself.
So she would not feel the other pain.
And it is true, she does not feel it.
She does not even see me.
It is not she anymore,
but the pain itself
that moves her.
I look and think how to forget.
How can I live while she
stands there? And if I take her life
what will that make of me?
I cannot touch her,
make her conscious.
It would hurt her too much.
I hear the sound all through the air
that was her eating,
but it is on its own now,
completely separate from her.
I think I am supposed to look.
I am not supposed to turn away.
I am supposed to see each detail
and all expression gone.
My God, I think,
if paradise is to be here
it will have to include her.

Linda Gregg

Posted over on Poetry Foundation