RogueAgent

My feet swell, each arch sore
as a fig. It hurts to walk. It hurts

to stand. It hurts to ice where it
hurts. Between instep and floor, 

a gap in the schematic, a cushion 
of air insulating us from whatever 

we stand on. Electrical breakdown: 
puncture voltage, flashover arc, all 

the ways current can exceed 
insulator. Here are the muscles 

built to hold me ever so slightly 
off the floor, and they are tired, 

I tell you. Tired of keeping it all 
private from the earth. This swelling 

is a slow-moving puncture arc. Grief, 
a bruise I stand on. If by bruise 

we mean dim lightning, soft fruiting 
body of collision. I walk to the bathroom. 

To the kitchen to turn off the kettle. 
Out the door without shoes 

on these two feet of grief, which, 
when a body is grieving, are the only 

two feet it’s got.

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