The Aftermath
It’s always the body that gives in
to the shimmering muscle and brute power
of thrashing ligament and cartilage,
in the final stage of revolt.
Lost days, sweat and terror fantasies.
The mind suffers upon so many miles,
and the disappointments pile up
in forgotten years.
Finally fever and bone ache
overdraw the account.
I ask the same question again:
Is this the new normal,
or another cycle doubling down on itself?
There is a brutal interest compounding
my preferred opening
towards love, compassion, kindness.
Even the morning walk to the market
becomes untenable.
It’s never forever,
but long enough to rip
the wind out
and set me adrift
into the crisp, oval afternoon.
I always recover.
