by Meredith Noseworthy
|I don’t know who he is. And the not
knowing rips through me, not unlike a train
hitting me. It’s not like being hit by a train: I
don’t splinter or break clean like dried woodand my shoulderblades have not bloomed
into wings, which means I’m not a bird.
He’s been the stow-away between my scapula
and cartilage. Now that he’s not there,
my feet don’t know him no matter
how far we walk, heels to boardwalk.
I’ve never known how muscles work, the pace and pulse