The Headache
By Anjali Jain
My friend, also a doctor, described his headache to me.
He said it was like someone or something
Scraping the inside of his skull,
Metal against bone,
Pain unimaginable and yet
I try to go there.
Wincing,
My heart breaks for
Tender stalks of capillaries,
Uprooted like tiny mushrooms,
Feathery and pink.
Mine is not so bad,
A weight pulling on the left side of my neck
Warm in my hand when I cradle my head,
Stroke my hair.
A dull thud reaches for my left temple
And brow, insistent,
A gray shade,
Partially unfurled.
A sullen teenager,
The headache has moved in,
Comes and goes as it pleases,
Mine and not mine,
Punishing me for that glass of wine
Or lost hour of sleep,
As if payment was overdue.
We don’t understand much about pain
Only that it is necessary—
The strict teacher no one wants
Even knowing you’ll learn the most.
I wonder if my pain helps me know yours
Or, instead, consumes me—
Keeps me within myself.
Am I able
Or unable
To grasp the suffering
Of another?
Hurt comes from hurt,
Pain often from pain,
This I know to be true.
Both cause and solution,
Misery loving company,
Two schoolchildren camping in the rain,
Waiting for the storm to pass.