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
for
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.
—3/17/17