Daphne
By Cynthia Bernard
July 15, 2023
July 15, 2023
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after Paisley Rekdal
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She loved dance classes, following the teacher’s lead, adding little flourishes of her own-- especially long glides and turns, almost flying around the perimeter of the studio, swift feet barely touching the wood-grained laminate floor. Once, years back, she’d gotten a lot of attention from a visiting instructor-- flattering, until it wasn’t. No, thanks seemed to mean nothing; he tried to follow her home. She ducked into an alleyway, posed, perfectly still, until long after he was gone. II She thought her shoulder would heal on its own, but when she stretched into a spin-- Arms up! — the right one went no further than halfway and stabbed her with sharp red-hot fragments of crushed glass. Moderate to severe degenerative changes. You can see it on the x-rays. Don’t leave, they said, just modify, do what you can-- but there was no joy in holding back from sweet abandon. III Some days, her right arm can’t pick up a towel, turn a doorknob, carry a cup of tea, and she is no longer graceful when she puts on deodorant or takes off her t-shirt. Good thing she had the left one-- until the fragments propagated and spread. Both shoulders now, wrists, knees, hips… and, oh, stabbing at the base of each thumb. IV She had been a believer for decades, optimal health through lifestyle choices and natural remedies. This would be no different, she thought. Folks raved about this pill, that potion, these exercises from a physical therapist, anti-inflammatory diets, massage, electric stimulation, hot wax, cold wraps, splints and braces. She gave each one a fair trial Combustion spread, undampened. V Pain is her constant companion now, worse whenever she moves. Easier, much easier, to be still. Her body’s a rebellious child-- oppositional defiance disorder, she jokes. Getting to sleep can be a challenge, surfing her shoulders, perhaps finding a sweet spot, perhaps not. Almost never staying asleep… then waking up aflame, a brutal way to start the day, but not surprising any more. VI Sex had always been another delight, following her beloved’s lead or asserting herself with fierce intensity. They had been passionate and inventive-- tango, salsa, bachata, merengue… No longer. Now they had an often-awkward ménage à trois: her passion, her partner, and the lumbering elephant her body had become. He said he was happy with what they had now, sweet, gentle and warm, and sometimes that was good, but if she let go into the cascading pleasure of orgasm, she was stabbed or burned or jolted. Eventually her body simply wouldn’t any more, and there was little joy in holding back from sweet abandon. She knew he was being generous; she did not want to hurt him. There was nothing she could do, no reason to speak up. Best to accept, sit quietly, and be still. If there were tears, she only shed them when she was alone. |
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Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many years of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Multiplicity Magazine, Passager, Writing in a Woman's Voice, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Poetry Breakfast, Medusa's Kitchen, Your Daily Poem, Persimmon Tree, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere.
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