Last night, a blood moon, a sleepless
red ache & I thought once
upon a time, this is what poets wrote for:
heated den to snowy porch, un-tread except
by pawprints & lovers. Except now
I am writing about sitzfleisch, the ability
to sit on one’s ass & persevere in tediousness,
like tap dancing on teacups,
which is not just a metaphor anymore.
Although, when tossed right, those cups slide
across the floor like a waltz.
Sometimes, I am trapped in the sky-blue vined
ceramic bells my mother collected,
how often the bells ended upside down,
but never cracked or filled, like unbroken toes
of pointe shoes. We learned to tape
our toes, tape down the bell ringer tongue
like we tape a knee or shoulder injury.
You’ve said it before—we induce pain to ease it.
Our hands touch a dozen others. Induce & ease
my physical therapist says, face it. I imagine lifelines
in our palms inking the ones in our care. If only
everyone would stretch the tight tendons despite hurt,
condition give & take. Ice & heat.
Ease into full mobility. Instead, we hold
the ache inflamed, tightening tendon
tenderness until shutting down—& out—
is the only reprieve.