Zooey’s medicine cabinet
After J.D. Salinger
opening spaces in the ordinary divine voices from behind
the painkillers vitamins razor deodorant all of those
deniers of the human condition pale palliatives for what
ails me and I stare at it on the other side of the swinging
cabinet door opening it further unwilling to meet its gaze
and I hear it a voice emanating from the emptiness behind
the bandaids rusty and stained with the detritus of being
human
I am your medicine I am the promise of healing
I am the cut that heals the pain dissipating I am who
I am not your cure only the space behind reflections
of who you were in years past empty out your cabinet
and I am what remains hear my voice from the cavity
no burning bush just the never exhausted memory
of your tears come closer close your eyes I love you
I am the never existing home the cushion you collapse
against when you can’t contain yourself I am inside
spaces the emptiness of which you only feel when you are
sad I cannot fill them feel only the resonance of the empty
walls singing you are enough and music to my ears
fearful and wondrous.
I shut the swinging door silencing God’s voice and look
out at the eyes that used to be mine again looking back
at me my medicine.
David Banach is a philosopher and poet in New Hampshire, where he tends chickens, keeps bees, and watches the sky. He likes to think about Dostoevsky, Levinas, and Simone Weil and is fascinated by the way form emerges in nature and the way the human heart responds to it. You can read some of his most recent poetry in Isele Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, Passionfruit Review, Terse, and Amphibian Lit. He also does the Poetrycast podcast for Passengers Journal.
Amethyst Review 