Choice

drawing a breath between each sentence, trailing closely every word. — James Hoch, ‘Draft’ in Miscreants 1. some things, I knew, were beyond choosing: didu — grandmother — wilting under cancer’s terminal care. mama — my uncle’s — mysterious disappearance — ventilator vibrating, severed silently, in the hospital’s unkempt dark. an old friend’s biting silence — unexplained — promised loyalties melting for profit abandoning long familial presences of trust. devi’s jealous heart      misreading emails hacked carefully under cover, her fingernails ripping unformed poems, bloodied, scarred — my diary pages weeping wordlessly — my children aborted, my poetry breathless forever. 2. these are acts that enact themselves, regardless — helpless, as I am, torn asunder permanently, drugged, numbed. strange love, this is — a salving: what medics and nurses do. i live buddha-like, unblinking, a painted vacant smile — one that stores pain and painlessness — someone else’s nirvana thrust upon me. some things I once believed in are beyond my choosing — choosing is a choice unavailable to me.