Anhedonia

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He said, “She said it means
Unable to have pleasure,
Unable to find it anywhere.
She put me on Zoloft to help.”
I thought of William Styron’s
Account of his own descent
Into depression so profound
He nearly took his life.
His book, Darkness Visible,
Speaks of “dank joylessness.”

But “anhedonia” seems wrong.
Such a gorgeous word-
Anhedonia.
Iambic trimeter,
With one clipped syllable
And two internal rimes.
It should mean a flower
Of Antarctica:
Purple and cobalt blue,
Growing deep in ice caves,
Healing the hearts of the lost
Or those who come late to the Pole:
Scott and his doomed men.

It has a catch in its rhythm,
An-hedonia,
A pause then run to its close,
Like the catch of my breath,
When driving to our cabin
On the upper Weber range,
I see a bluebird lift
From its hollowed fencepost nest,
Flutter once, then dart
Across the grey-green sage,
Waiting for me to pass,
Then flutter again and come back.

Anhedonia.
How can it mean no joy
When the word is such a joy,
A pleasure in the mouth
And on the pulse and heart.