Ursa Major

You were in a better place once,
when your medication
balanced you out quite nicely,
and your hands didn't shake
too much. You could still play
piano, alone in the basement
beside the laundry room,
where no one could hear your
cursing, as you tried to sight read
Bach. You socialized with people
who were tolerably normal,
but understood your tendency
to miss weeks of school,
and welcomed you back with
cheering, and spent hours
making you laugh. But now you
only show up to take tests and
sit in desk chairs, no piano
stools or late-night trips
to the woods, telescope in
tow, and when you hold your
pen, it shakes like a leaf in
a gale-force wind, knocking
out your ability to steady
yourself on anything sound.
And I weep for you knowing
that no sweet word can combat
the sourness in your heart,
and no amount of love can
heal your weary mind--
at least none that our human
hands can offer you.

I only pray that someday soon
you are able to look at stars again.