THE OVERCOAT Cold turkey from morphine after a diskectomy Dec 92 It’s a coat around me, A kind of covering. It’s me of course, I’m here, doing this, being this My skin is still the outer barrier Between what’s me and what is not. But there’s a kind of coat That’s wrapped around me now. A spongy, soft, invisible and insulating cloak. I’m sorry you can’t see it So you’d understand. The groaning you can hear me making Must be very hard for you to bear, But I can’t help you, I can’t even tell you: It’s the cloak that’s moaning. All the tears you see are mine, They pour from out my eyes, And yet, within me is the knowledge Of the cloak that cries, that moans, that writhes, Not I,                   And as my mind Is totally absorbed in feeling, thinking, Being what the cloak is asking me to be, I cannot even contemplate The moment when the cloak might disappear, I only wish you’d understand: it’s quite alright. Beneath this cloak of suffering, Of isolation and unreachable remoteness I’m alive in here, I’m holding on. I live. I wait. I live. I wait. I live. © Anita Sinclair 23rd July 1994