Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

~Emily Dickinson

I think Dickinson is speaking here about mental and emotional anguish, but when I read this poem, I think first of physical pain. During the times in my life when I’ve experienced the greatest physical agony–recovering from a car accident, recovering from two C-sections–pain has taken on the character Dickinson describes. It seems endless, and it’s impossible to remember what it really felt like not to hurt.

I’ve read this poem over and over–it often catches my eye as I’m leafing through my copy of Dickinson’s poems. The way in which Dickinson elevates pain–“infinite realms,” “enlightened”–makes it almost a revelatory experience. In some ways, I suppose it is. We learn through pain exactly what we are made of. When I read it, though, I think first of those I know who live with chronic illness. The pains I have felt have always passed eventually, but theirs persist, are eternal. I can only imagine, and look to this poem, to try to understand their realities.