I choose to write a poem
when my left ankle’s broken, purple,
and my right ankle’s swollen blue,
both knees banged, twice their usual size,
both my long legs “killing me,”
while a famous angel is really killing me.
I separate physical pain from the real thing—
the real thing, the soul usually dies
before the body. My soul is dancing,
welcoming spring in the garden
on a beautiful June morning,
ready to live forever.
—2018