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Finding Legs
My signature danced like water in my eyes. Somehow, my flimsy body,
shaking like a red maple leaf, made it from limb to ground
without cracking, without crumbling
and the arms of the wheelchair clung strange, like they knew
I was numb, like my torso would wake at any moment and fall forward.
A nurse came and took my purse, took Chapstick
from my pocket,
then the pen from my hand before taking the belt from my loops
and lead me to a room where I could shut the door and cry alone.
A moment of grace
between horrors of dreams and new life:
between bark and concrete, light wind moving me down:
awake on a bed I hoped never to feel again; sheet I hoped to forget.
A moment of grace:
my tingling body, coming to | the way a foot will |
when circulation has been stopped | the way a flower falls when the heat starts |
Coming to
I thought
coming to consciousness
to reckoning
to blows
with myself, with a wall
and in a sterile room, in a foreign place where underpaid nurses jostle me harshly
A moment of grace:
I run my fingers down those waking legs that could be mine,
that could move again.