On a scale of one to ten

The questionnaire slips to the floor.
A gust from the window spins it and years ago my son’s boat
drifts on the town pond more and more out of reach.
A tear rolls down my cheek. Is this me now,
 where questions pared of all sensitivity
rate me formally beyond normality
on a scale of one to ten?
 
My inner song replies, ‘Just go, those questions aren’t for you, you’re coming
through. You’ve had a bad case of bad, bad husband but you’re not sinking.
Life shines in you, clinks round and light in your fingers, new minted.
Savour it with fresh-baked rolls floured, mallow-soft, plump.
Feel it slobber you like a month-old puppy climbing up your
sleeves to suck your ears. Be bold. Let new days laugh
away old fears. You’re smiling, look, first time
in years air rushes into you deep. Don’t
think, don’t waste this precious,
brief today, don’t even pray,
just let your hands
fall open.’

Rosie Johnston

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Rosie Johnston would be pleased to hear them.