Those Who Rise

by Naomi Thiers

Who whistle down into pill-dotted armchairs,
sofas of age-thinned textured fabric, who
lower hipbones, wince on slatted benches
or grope, frightened, with swollen ankles
for the footstool—grounded today not by fog
but by skin-shining edema:
feet that split, knees that grind,
fatigue that swallows all
into night-at-the-window
already, again,
another day
Who then spit, swallow panic,
push palms down on armrests, swing
titanium hips, push feet into sandals—
better today, that tea helps
squint to smear plum nail
polish, rise up
to something.


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return to issue 6: march, 2018