New Poetry by Juan Pablo Duboue

Doleō

Pain is a part of me as much as writing is a part of me

Sometimes it’s bloating and unbearable,

Though at times it is quite manageable.

Migraines come and go like the jasmines in my garden.

Summer intensifies and 

Winter harbours grudges. 

Blame it on the rectified cervical lordosis

Blame it on my insomnia 

Blame it on you, on me, on them

On them, on me, on you.

Psychosomatic disorders 

you name them.

I know the Rorschach by heart 

and the inkblots dye my mind. 

Imagination’s running wild

as the oil spills on the butterflies.

Not a penguin, but a butterfly 

Not a penguin, but a butterfly.

Haunting crows circle 

my sheets, an orgy of feathers 

and cawing at midnight.

They tear my limbs apart

My intestines open 

My aorta bleeding poppies in July.

I do not see myself as fat

I am not overweight 

It’s the eating that I dread

For food makes me gag

I cannot seem to hold it.

Body rejects what mind decides is past.

Bags have transmuted from a grayish green to black 

People seem to stare at me

As if I were a terminal patient

There’s nothing terminal in me 

My conditions are chronic 

They let me rest 

They let me have my days

And then the cycle starts

Again and again and again.

An episode here and there 

When life’s good it’s every four months

Otherwise it’s every month

A cramp 

A shock

A needle stuck into my neck 

A syringe plunged into my back.

It’s dying and resurrecting every time

Every four months, lucky me.

Doctors say it’s in my mind

Shrinks say it’s in my blood 

Daddy says it’s on his family’s side

Mother says just stop the nonsense 

You’re fine.

Thank you for your insights

But the pain is still concrete

I can touch it 

I can grab it

I can chew it

Feel it twisting me

From the inside out 

A thousand claws 

Toying with my insides.

Feasting over me.

A common depersonalization,

fear of a heart attack,

a nervous breakdown.

The acute onset

cradles me to sleep.

I am one with the attack,

a sisterly feeling

of impending death;

Pain is a part of me as much as writing is a part of me.

I know the Rorschach by heart 

and the inkblots dye my mind.

- Juan Pablo Duboue 2014

Juan Pablo Duboue was born in Mendoza, Argentina in 1986. Currently pursuing a masters in Contemporary English Literature, he works as a teacher, interpreter and translator. Apart from writing poetry and short stories, Juan Pablo is also a singer and a ballet dancer.