Radiating Pain

Doctor,
what I want
is to feel the same.
I want
to curl up in an overstuffed chair with a good book
to settle down casually next to someone and strike up a conversation
to sit on a park bench and eat my lunch
to buy a week's worth of groceries and carry them all upstairs at once
to run along a trail next to the water
to wear shoes that aren't sneakers or Birkenstocks
to drive my fire-engine red Ford Galaxy from Mexico to Oregon again
to ride my motorbike down slippery mud ravines
to dance at the wedding instead of standing in the back of the church
to sit through the bar mitzvah instead of lurking in synagogue shadows
to accept the folding white lawn chair thoughtfully provided at the graveside
to lift up the girl-child who is asking to sit on my lap
to sit astride my man while making love
to have him come up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder
without every muscle in my back clenching
to lean back when he kisses me and not feel that tightness grabbing at me
and almost see the line of fire shooting down my leg
or just lie alone in my bed at night and not be aware
that my left leg feels any different from the right
or that I am any different from anyone else
who takes these things for granted.