Ann E. Wallace
A QUESTION FOR MY BODY
Today each touch rubs abrasive
against the pads of my fingers
and my limbs vibrate with a pain
that has its own frequency.
Everything hurts as if
I drank too much last night.
As if I had too much fun.
As if.
I know, in these past months
I forgot—I’ve been doing my thing
which has not, for once, been
about you (okay, maybe
it sort of has been),
and I’ve been caring
for a body, not you,
small & struggling—
how fast the crash & pummel
comes, how sharp
the humiliation, how
humbling
when I get smacked
onto the worn-out landing
pad of my goddam red cough
where I have convalesced &
reconnoitered & conspired
in spite of you before.
So, is it some kind of sick
joke that I am back here
again, considering
throwing this cursed piece
of furniture to the curb
so I might fool
myself into a fresh start?
And really, I have to ask you
why every step forward
is a fakeout where you swerve
& slam me to the ground
just when I begin to think
I’m standing on my own two feet.