somersaults

was the core of me starving—layers ripped, peeled—losing hold, cold? like a floe
fleeing, outward bound?

(as yet unknown realm/unanswered questions.)

a small spot appears at lunchtime while i hold a spoon
and stir fresh vegetables in a pot, the beginnings of soup, a broth
of oxygen bubbles, a steady steam of spice feeding the space
above my head where shiny silver pans covered
in a moist venous glaze hang from wooden
pegs along a beam. a small spot i ignore.
a small spot. i ignore. a small squeeze on the left side of my chest.
it's really nothing at all. it grows and shrinks—
smaller, bigger, smaller, to almost nothing,
almost nothing at all.

i imagine fibers elongating—thumpbabump—trying to inch their way out. i think,
absurdly, of valentine's day, the throb of love, the center and shape of it—fat, red, oozing.

(who made up that blood is blue?)

blood is red, red and burning, and it plays a satisfying game of survival.

cars flow along the on and off ramps on forest avenue, disturb
accumulations of litter that bite the curbstones near the bent
forms of pedestrians who battle the winter wind. a man hops from one foot
to the other clutching a sign: homeless please help any way you can. 

i walk into the ER no problem, fill out a few questions on a clipboard.
symptoms: ghost dance/soft pirouette. nurse hands me a thermometer,
pumps up a cuff on my arm, pronounces everything normal, says the wait
won't be long. his earring glitters under the energy saving lights.

i lie on a gurney, chat with the docs. i feel good. i never see my monitored
numbers plummet, the lines descending behind my head. i never think i am
a goner, but my eyes see gray. everything turns to a dim rush
a blur of people doing their jobs. later that night i learn my husband cried.

this flip of a thing—this filipendulous detail—decides to tumble
on to monday, its eyes ravenous for tuesday, rolling rolling each day,
each day for a long time after that, never stopping, always onward, its
movement undeterred by the dark uncertainty of an indifferent spit of road.

after bramhall

a renegade light begins to undo the grip of the dark, rubs the sleep out of air that is becoming wicked, wicked. fierce wind gusts from the west and abuses the swaddled walkers and joggers who brave frigid temperatures as they cut through the remaining gloom.

(but spring can't be too far away because lee in virginia says she saw a huge flock of robins on a lawn; they must have been storing up calories for flight....do fly north fast, birdies.)

arms paddling, various sized backsides swaying or bobbing up and down, some of these people wear vests over their layers with neon yellow markings and happy little lights that blink away what's left of the night.

my feet and i, we're bad, very bad—we take the coward's way out. we retreat indoors—sissies!—away from the cold and into a snug little room downstairs. flip a switch, hear it whir, watch the tiny orange lights flicker and light up the console, the machine coming to life.

i climb aboard.

stride after stride, lap after lap, mile after mile, my breath in rhythm with my molecules as they spin and loop in an unrestrained aerobic dance. it feels good, this breathing room, where all of me is living in air.