Nels Hanson’s most recent poem to appear here was “Lifespan” (August 2017)

Sunday Inventory
By Nels Hanson

I wear my heart on my sleeve
where you’re supposed to. I say
Yes and No, Maybe, Please, Thank
You, You’re Welcome. My eyes

open too wide, both ears, good and
bad one, to screams and laughter,
silence past the last word’s dark
root. My palms tell each falling

soldier of the rain, wet cat’s fur,
a petal’s satin. I know my head’s
an eggshell I live inside, body
suit of magic clothes stretching,

shrinking to dissolve. The heart
breaks, breaks, and breaks until
it splits a final time to escape
its brittle box. Sunday morning

when the ambulance came to take
my wife to the hospital in the ER
the cop barked I had to check in
first and wouldn’t let me see her.

When I sat down he asked me if
I needed a doctor for myself. Tired,
bled blue from six nights worry,
helpless care, no sleep, I answered

half-awake, true as Adam before
the Fall: “I don’t want a doctor.
I need help.” We’re losing it you
know, a long time now the secret

out the soul is leaving, so seldom
can you find your face in the face
of others, real original sin. Struck
by God twice I try to remember

but strange today to find strange
peace in waning interest in this
world, reassuring an old wisdom
in the end they can only kill you.