Family Friday: my family is as much my queer, aspie, geeky, mentally unstable, angry, leftie tribe as my legal and blood relations.
This is a poem from the point of view of my friend Paul.
Who is family in all the above ways.
(Technically the poem could be said to be about the addressee as much as the speaker, but this happens so much that it’s hard to narrow it down.)
——–
I make eye contact with you, at once unpleasant
An intensity of sensation
Like a close-to-the-face clenched fist.
But at least you – my allistic friend,
My self defining ally – you must see
The significance:
I never make eye contact.
And I am making eye contact.
Albeit fleeting, frowning, flickering…
I’m asking you for help.
And you know why.
You must know why.
You’ve known me for so long.
And yes, I know:
The woman spraying perfume
The man playing tinny music
The stranger forcing me to “join the fun”
Are minor things for you.
But I also know
You know they are unbearable to me.
I know you know this.
But when I stare at you
Flick my panicked eyes toward the oblivious problem,
Whisper “…please?”
You look… politely blank.
Your smile becomes remote, as if to say
“There is no problem here.
It’s only in your head.
Observe my calm demeanor
And strive to emulate it for yourself.
We’ll both pretend you haven’t said a word.
Won’t that be for the best?”
To ask for help is painful
To ask, even to hint, and be refused?
I cannot put the torture into words.
I know: for you, it’s nothing.
And I know you know:
For me, it’s the whole world consumed in fire.
And through the flames,
You sit, modeling cheerful acquiescence
Just for me.
Because you’d rather see me burn alive.
Than raise your voice to help me ask for help.
Tom Juniper Poetry 