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Spread the Word

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Imanni Sheppard, PhD

Contributor's Note

A few years ago, while visiting a friend, I was introduced to a tall, thin, man who could not have been more than 35 years old. He was learned, well-spoken, and well-groomed.  A graduate of Julliard and Yale, his mother said. And yet, the more I spoke with him the more I realized that he was not quite in touch with the outside world. Most of his stories and dialogue referenced a time before his incident—his attack.

Three years before our meeting, 5 police officers beat him into a coma. He remained in that state for 4 months. He spoke of waking up handcuffed to the bed because he was said to have resisted arrest. He was perceived to be a threat (even while in a coma). As the story goes, it was a case of mistaken identity—this did not change the ultimate outcome of his mental, emotional, and physical health. He became agoraphobic.

Too often we (in the most general sense) tend to associate wealth with health and a degree of betterness or value. Yet, one’s wealth or social/biological citizenry does not shield one from some of the harsh realities of race, racism, and medicine. It was my hope that the interplay between the title of the poem, the imagery, and the emotional/cognitive experience of the ill subject would give the reader insight into the phenomenology of his experiences with agoraphobia.

Domus

Vol 6: Iss 2, Poetry

A wavering light dances
on lavender shrubs outside of the Spanish-style windows
in the room 
of my living.

I smell jasmine
and 
see vines. 
They sway back and forth in a divine synchronicity 
with multicolored leaves
and 
grey moss on oak trees 
visible
in the distance.

They commune 
with a warm breeze. 
I feel it through the crevices of freedom in the screen door;
a gift to me.

I sit by it 
and wonder sometimes
if the winds carry a profound wisdom that
escapes
the somatic and cognitive experience of my being
here.

Sometimes
I envy
the trees—
arrogant, proud,
upright,
confident.

I wonder sometimes
if they mock me—
surrounded by weeds and poppies—
do they laugh at my sickness
my illness
my choice?

a choice? a fear? 
to be afraid
agoraphobic
depressed
isolated
alone
entrapped, anxious, and embarrassed
panicked
panicking
yet
coveting
the simplicity of 
being

outside

 

In Ancient Rome domus was an elaborate house often occupied by wealthy people. I decided to use the term as the title of my poem for several reasons: 1) the fall of Rome was due in part to the loss of civility and the declining health of the populace; 2) the wealth of the empire did not protect its citizens from collapse; and 3) for many wealthy Romans, what was once an opulent lifestyle and home ultimately became a prison. These three premises seemed to provide a context for the life and story of the fore-noted gentleman. So, I thought it fitting.

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