by Carol Berg
Scoliosis
Each day, my back reminds me
that pain is an artist.
Some mornings, my pain
is a contortionist performing in carnival,
bright fire in its mouth, bending
in ways my body won’t.
Some days, a boring lecturer,
the dullest words culled
from an iron alphabet.
A deep-sea diver,
pulling pain like long strands
of seaweed through my spine.
Violetta in La Traviata,
rising to an aria so high
it vibrates in my skin.
Some days, my pain holds
out an olive branch, and when I reach,
retracts it. There are days when my pain is a baker,
kneading and stretching my joints see-through thin.
My pain scatters its numbers across my back until
the scale of one to ten becomes a puzzle,
pieces I can’t fit together.
I try once more to learn how to count