Sonnet to My Hopeless Ones

When depression or anxiety feels like death

The Raising of the Daughter of Jairus, Gabriel Max, 1881

Sonnet to My Hopeless Ones
                                 Little girl, get up!–Mark 5:41

Oh, you’re not dead, just asleep.
Let’s wrench you by your clammy hand
from the dread that pulls you deep
into your worn-out, worm-gnawed land.

It’s time to boot the funeral flutes
and without shame amass an array
of scripts, therapists, and ceaseless brute
grace. Together, we will chart your way

for waking. I get the terror of pure
presence, like falling headlong into bread
and wine. Scent and shimmer lure
you from your false control of death.

No matter. Rise and feel the feelings.
Let’s start your gorgeous agony of healing.