Ellen Bass, “Change” (1980)

[haybalemaze]

 This is where I yank the old roots 

from my chest, like the tomatoes 
we let grow until December, stalks 
thick as saplings.

This is the moment when the ancient fears 
race like thoroughbreds, asking for more 
and more rein. And I, the driver, 
for some reason they know nothing of
strain to hold them back.

Terror grips me like a virus 
and I sweat, fevered,
trying to burn it out.

This feat is so invisible. All you can see 
is a woman going about her ordinary day, 
drinking tea, taking herself to the movies,
reading in bed. If victorious, 
I will look exactly the same. 

Yet I am hoisting a car from mud ruts 
half a century deep. I am hacking 
a clearing through the fallen slash 
of my heart. Without laser precision, 
with only the primitive knife of need, I cut 
and splice the circuitry of my brain.
I change.