WINTER MATH

​

I spend a statistically significant
quantity of time thinking of the pains
that other people don’t deserve, which
is exactly what I deserve. A universal
injury engraved on twin silhouettes
on either side of several coins. Chances
are you’ve seen me before, making
my way carefully through sodden
slush accumulated on a sidewalk
trying to be on time for an inconsequential
appointment. I have fallen once or twice.
When the kids were young I hopscotched
one day down the stairs, hurrying
because someone was yelping or
an argument was brewing in the house
we lived in then. I turned my ankle
under hard. Bent it all the way around.
The pain was yellow and acidic
and it smelled of diesel fumes. An engine
running somewhere poorly ventilated.
No one else remembers. On winter days
my ankle is a lake of snow, blue, deep,
cold and ravenous, a school of tiny fish
that rise now and then to sip the air
but never take the line for fear it’s baited.