Edvard Munch, Woman's Head Against the Shore (Art Institute of Chicago)
Depression
Jane Ellen Glasser
If it were a thing I could take aim at,
an arrow at the heart of a tangible beast,
I’d feel better.
If it had a body, I could slam a door
in its face and turn the four locks
of fear like a big city girl.
If it had a number, I could erase it
from my cell phone, my rotary index,
the white pages of my brain.
If it had a name and address,
I could put on my judge’s black robe
and issue a restraining order.
If it were wild, I could tame it,
extract its claws, teach it obeisance
with the strop of my tongue.
And yet, if it had not stuck to me
like shadow, followed me home
through deserted streets
to move into my rooms,
if it had not turned off the lights
and spooned beside me in bed
nights for so many years,
could I be, would I be happy
to be so unloved?
Jane Ellen Glasser
If it were a thing I could take aim at,
an arrow at the heart of a tangible beast,
I’d feel better.
If it had a body, I could slam a door
in its face and turn the four locks
of fear like a big city girl.
If it had a number, I could erase it
from my cell phone, my rotary index,
the white pages of my brain.
If it had a name and address,
I could put on my judge’s black robe
and issue a restraining order.
If it were wild, I could tame it,
extract its claws, teach it obeisance
with the strop of my tongue.
And yet, if it had not stuck to me
like shadow, followed me home
through deserted streets
to move into my rooms,
if it had not turned off the lights
and spooned beside me in bed
nights for so many years,
could I be, would I be happy
to be so unloved?