into agoraphobia began with pneumonia
that bore into my lungs the way January invaded
my bones. As days dissolved into months
that took years, I lay frozen in the dead of fear
on a faded couch from Salvation Army, watching
snow slowly bury the patio and counting
the shades of gray that muted the clouds.
1. Steel wool.
2. Pale dove.
3. Loss of will.
Each day there were too many grays to count.
4. Ship’s hull.
5. Jail cell.
6. Wall of silence.
The tower of snow that rose out back threatened
to reach the sky. Something further than deep
inside me was disappearing below the ice.
7. Fog hill.
8. Gull’s shadow.
9. Well of exile.
Somewhere a husband was calling. I could not hear
voices other than the ones in my head.
I met him at carrot sticks and lentil soup,
the only foods I could taste. Swallowing
felt like choking. The maple tree that drew
shadows in the spring was now drowning
in the snow. I felt for that tree. We were both
going under and struggling to breathe.
Nights held me waiting for the release
of another moon; it was too cold to sleep
at the bottom of my mind.
Unwarmed by a dark orange afghan and unsure I’d ever venture
past the prison of my panic, I kept sinking
into a sea of grays, so lost
I couldn’t fathom
how to be found.
–
Anne Rankin’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Healing Muse, The Poeming Pigeon, The Awakenings Review, Hole in the Head Review, Passager Journal, Scapegoat Review, Atlanta Review, and Comstock Review. Her poem “left unsaid” was a finalist at the Belfast Poetry Festival 2022.