Not a Fidget by Laurie Donaldson

Asking much of the body, it does its best.
Scrapes, strains, injuries, all treatable,
glasses over failing eyes, pills into a sore head
– showing care so it functions as it should, does what its told.

But not the tics, they have their own values, an enemy,
a constant, a constraint, a companion,
an opposition, internal voice of repetition.

This ventriloquist dummy body does not demarcate
– but can obscure shudders, quivers, jiggles and wriggles
so that I am not just a jerk coerced into movement, begrudging, inadvertent.

Such an alien presence cannot be defined and I won’t let it define me,
while the chain of command shifts back and forth.
It won’t be pinned down, trembles a lepidopterist would find a bother.
It would still argue at such stigmata, a trapped beast in tensed clavicle.

In moving through life, they remain,
twitches that are infringements, itches to be scratched.
I understand those who would not wish them away
if they could, this essence,
while grateful they are not as bad as they can be
– evil puppeteer, stringing me along, but not destroying.

Shoulders have their quiet fluttering time of it,
shrugging at me with disdain, or is it contempt?
This shrug is not dismissive of others,
just shoulders with a mind of their own,
or, rather, a part of the mind with shoulders of its own.

The annoying foot scuff brings stumble on sticky floors,
airport terrazzo a particular menace
as freedom from being cooped up brings on a flurry.
When running, this scuff can be staved off with promises,
negotiating delay, postponing the inevitable, involuntary only to a degree.

Alone, the signature lip curl grimace can let loose but looked better on Bogart.
Finger twisting to order, even when writing this,
a self-referential secret power kept from transgression
– integral recurrence, undeniably mine, but not a craving for attention.

This knowledge is all internal, call and response
– a closed system with no line of sight to what aches.
I can’t take it or leave it, this inner dialogue
is not disappearing over time, but has become
‘in the grain’. Oh, I am repeating myself,
repeating myself, repeating myself.

Illustration by Laura Darling