Exile    numbpoems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

I’m So Damn Healthy

I was just thinking
that I couldn’t possibly die
any more
than I already have.

Then you get a night like last night.
My heart was weak
and I could barely breathe;
I was lying in bed looking
at the clock. If there were words for this
they would be
fragmented and ugly, jagged, as they
told how early scenes
were flashing at me in rebuke.
But are words things and things words?
I used to think so.

I used to think I was freaking out
because I never quite freaked
out all the way, like Soren did after
taking a hit, weeping and wailing,
or like Emerson did
when he smashed his bong in the bathtub.

I need to change my perspective. When
the art therapist said I needed to die I should
have said I have, I have, and now I’m here.

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