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From: Dara McLaughlin
Date: 04 Sep 2000
Time: 21:54:16
Remote Name: p104-112.atnt1.dialup.abq1.flash.net
Three poems on the disability experience - more where that came from! Dara McLaughlin
POEM FOR A CAN OPENER by Dara McLaughlin
I want to open a can of tuna and share it with someone I love
I want to open my fist to find a nugget of fine poetry in my palm
I want to open a sandwich shop in Costa Rica but probably won’t because I don’t want it enough
I want to open my mouth and have magnificent words pour out like champagne in moonlight
I want to open a vein and clamp it shut at the last moment just to see what it’s like
I want to open a bottle of expensive wine on a pier at night with that perfect partner who adores me and stays true
I want to open the sky and see for myself what hovers over it
I want to open the eyes and ears and hearts and minds of the kids in juvenile detention centers by teaching them poetry
I want to open my grandparents’ kitchen back door see them alive again, have them offer me oatmeal cookies with raisins and stories
I want to open myself up to the probability that I will remain single for the rest of my life
I want to open a newspaper and read a declaration of world peace signed in blood by every country on the planet
I want to open an oyster shell and find the key to happiness
I want to open a checking account and not be afraid the IRS will extract from it at their will
I want to open an open discussion about why strangers and mild acquaintances think just because I use a “chair” they can ask me if I can have an orgasm
I want to open my closet and see that someone has cleaned it
I want to open my garage and see that someone has cleaned it
I want to open my mind and see that someone has cleaned it
I want to open the tomb of Nebuchadnezzar poke his ancient bones and ask: What were you thinking, Neb?
I want to open a daily column in the newspaper that lists names, addresses, and phone numbers of all able-bodied people who illegally park in the handicapped spots
I want to open a book to the page that tells the difference between want and desire
I want to open my heart to anyone who has ever hurt me but I don’t have all the steps down yet
I want to open a theater that has disabled persons playing disabled persons, Indians portraying Indians
I want to open the first public school that teaches the truth about life and the truth about love
I want to open all the drawers in the department store that hold all the cosmetics, and spend days experimenting with the stuff
I want to open the fridge and just once, find not one single solitary thing growing blue fuzz
I want to open my lungs to pure, unadulterated air
I want to open the heads of Stephen Hawking and William Shakespeare to see what makes them you-know
I want to open all my senses at the same time to 100% capacity without drugs
I want to open all the files kept secret on the JFK assassination
I want to open all the files withheld from adopted people wanting to know their heritage
I want to open the bridge between disability shame and disability pride, have everyone cross over from shame to pride, then burn it
I want to open a can of tuna and share it with someone I love.
* * *
D: Here. I want you to read this poem and tell me what you think. K: I like it. It’s cool. Pretty clever. D: Thanks. I actually had fun writing it. K: There’s one thing I don’t get, though. D: What’s that? K: Through the whole thing you never told about wanting to walk again. D: It never occurred to me. K: Are you going to add it on? D: No. I don’t need to. It’s no longer part of the picture. K: I’ll never understand that. D: If I could walk again someday, then great. But I don’t have to any more. I’m healthy, have a full life, lots of love around me and in me. The old need to walk simply faded until it disappeared. K: And that’s the truth? D: That’s the truth.
TEMPORARILY ABLE-BODIED by Dara McLaughlin
Two guys in a bar. Both have wheelchairs. First guy says to the second guy “What are you?” Other guy says, “C-5*. You?” First guy says, “T-8*. Bullet.” Second guy lifts his beer, a little. “Motorcycle.” That’s it. Nothing funny about these two guys in a bar. They speak the same language, understand without words the stories and history and all the bits and pieces of one another’s existence. Nothing funny.
Two guys in a bar. They have wheelchairs. Having a good ol’ time. Just that afternoon the first guy’s girlfriend left him for a Walker. He knew it would happen some day. Today was the day. He drowns the disengagement in another beer. The second guy celebrates another month at the job. It won’t last long; he’s too complicated, too much a symbol of tragedy. Life’s tough enough without reminders.
Two guys in a bar. Both have wheelchairs. They look around, take in the scenery, the only two guys in the bar who know the meaning of TAB. The only two guys in the bar who know that every other guy in the bar is a TAB. Nothing funny about that either.
*C-5 an injury at the 5th cervical vertebra *T-8 an injury at the 8th thoracic vertebra
REEBOK SHRINE by Dara McLaughlin
---for Ange
Fifteen seconds left in the game fourteen...thirteen...twelve BAM! He slams against the sideboard Snaps his neck Crumples to the ice Lies completely still That’s it. Done.
Now his sneakers stand propped on his dresser The Reeboks. The ones he wore to the game on his last walk. The Reeboks right there under jersey #44 hanging on the wall. Those were the days.
It’ll take a few years before he comes around before he settles into his new life, takes pride in it And he might. He might. For now he lies in bed with dreams He lies in bed with memories He lies in bed on constant replay--- fourteen...thirteen...twelve BAM!