Broken Humerus

by Mafa Edwards

I’m afraid of
armed chairs,
pushy commuters,
kids on scooters.

I steer clear of
oversized backpacks,
narrowed passages,
crowded spaces.

I miss
my students’ laughter,
wearing dresses,
dancing to live music.

I’m still learning how to
eat with the wrong hand,
sign my name,
style my hair single-handedly.

I celebrated
bathing and
dressing myself,
shopping solo for food,
gathering and taking out the trash.

I find joy in
a warm shower,
a slow dance,
the color of the sky.

I yearn for
a walk without fear,
easy, fun food,
a wide open green.

I say a thankful prayer for
the sheep herd,
the poultry farm,
the citrus grove.

I ask for help
unscrewing jars,
fastening bras,
closing windows.

I dream of
the partner who sticks by me,
the colleague who came to visit,
the neighbor whose door is always open.

I am grateful
accurate X-rays,
indoor plumbing,
my cell phone.

I’ve given up on
wearing socks, peeling kiwis,
folding fitted sheets.

I wish I had more
clothing I could put on all by myself,
friends who could casually drop by,
things I could do with one clumsy hand.


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