Tarn Wilson

Coming to Terms with Chronic Illness: Fatigue in December

The moon is a button made of bone

that closes the great black cloak

of winter. I move in slow motion.

I harness myself to an engine

which drags me where I have to go.

The elbows of my soul have road rash.

I am the opposite of a drag queen:

I remove makeup, tangle my hair,

and pull on plaid pajama bottoms

with ragged hems. I want snowfall

and flannel sheets. I want to curl

in the pocket of that great black cloak

with its moon-button made of bone.

I hereby resign from my lifetime

appointment as lighthouse keeper.

I am not exhausted by the storms

–or the saving–but by the watching

and waiting.

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