Ravening nerves, ravaged head;
eye-blurring headache
brings erratic crests and pulses
of bitterly exquisite pain,
crippling in intensiveness and depth,
but…how depth? The actual brain
has no pain paths, not much feeling
to its organic physical substance.

There is a broad rubber band
around my skull, tightly secured
and flexing elastic compression.
Pulsar pain! How I hate your game!
Brutalized, fragile, ultra-sensitive
to movement; even using eyes to focus
brings orbits of ill feeling, almost
systemic nausea, and whimpers.
But voicing torment’s bite bites back,
intensifying crystalline sheerings,
rebounding spastically, without sense.

Early morning. Ibuprofen, a percocet…nothing.
Later, acetaminophen, no effect. Can’t take
Naproxin, which might help, skin
would be crazily itching for hours.
Lie in darkened room on bed. Each position
eases grip for a second, until different
intricate routes are found to throb
and strangle. Sitting, leaning, sideways,
cranium over edge; nothing relieves the torture.
How can a head not explode under such pressure?

Driven ruthlessly, cabinets ransacked,
frantic for release! There is nothing!
A friend calls, proffers a Valium.
Oh, god, yes! Please! The wait
escalates anxiety, ratcheting
rubberband-land into throes of agony…
Finally, chased with aspirin,
a small amount of surcease
languishes awareness of distress.

A reprieve, misery pushed below
the surface of scalp’s skin,
but not defeated. In a few hours,
the hurting will reclaim its writhing territory.
The hope is for nighttime’s restless repose
to squash the resurgence, quell the beast,
tame the pain. That is the hope,
dawn will bring the final determination.

Erin Moen
2/26/04
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