when I run in the cold I am
acutely aware of my nerve endings & how they
form clusters like dust molecules gathering under a stove –
my lips throb against the knife-edge of wind & my
nipples tighten defensively into peaks but
elbows, knees, heels all are so silent
they fade out of awareness altogether.
I could almost be without them – mouth
& breasts & fingertips alone together
racing through the February air.
This is just one miracle.
Mama, your body
is no one’s apology. From tiny dust-balls of your cells we
grew, neural tubes stretching & bending into brains & spinal cords,
skin that keeps outside water out & inside water in
hair that needs cutting
hearts that beat beat beat even
when it hurts, sometimes,
too much,
And it was your hands that chopped the
color-spectrum of vegetables we used to build these long
bodies, our own, and your
collarbone we cried into, your feet that followed everywhere
so you’d be right behind if we
fell. I know that pain, immediate
and remembered, is an ever-present toddler tugging
on your sleeve saying look, look, it hurts
and I wish so fiercely I could send him away
but you are also a woman of your own,
carrying pain on your hip with one arm and,
with the other, reaching up and
rising.