Telling our story is . . . painful as anything
I’ve ever done. More painful than. A lapse
Of time so long and I’d assumed, wrongly,
These subjects for the most part would have lost
Their power to hurt. The truth is, now I wish
They hadn’t pled their case to me. The wound
Reopens; so clearly was never healed.
What sort of doctoring is it that wounds?
The question raised experimentally,
Either to prove I should renounce or else
Regain the urgent impulse that made me start.
Words and meanings fall into place as though
They were . . . a solid reason to continue,
Some inkling why I want to give them voice—.
I recall, too, periods doing no work: