After the Fall
A great bolt of violet lightning comes
for my hip & radiates, &,
as the world unfolds in slow waves
of pain, I wonder what it will be like
to be old. Terrible, I worry—all
the body’s bones like casino dice,
all the sun’s light like a hard
slap. I rise & see myself shuffling
through the next three weeks
avoiding snow, muttering
to my shoes. &, after,
my hip joint will join
a little less smoothly, the way
the toe I broke in high school
is still bigger than the others.
Not just mine: bigger
than all toes. I know because
I’ve looked, grown vain lately
about small things—the gym-
built biceps, the hairline still unafraid
of my face. From the prow
of my hip, I see middle age rise
like a strange coast
on the horizon, close enough now
that I can count the rivers, identify
individual trees. When I arrive,
I will tell the people there
I was beautiful once
the way everyone is: dumbly
& briefly, eyes catching
at every bright thing
but the ice beneath my feet.
