They have never known trouble in their short lives,
I think, watching the dancers
vault each natural law
that dooms me to pedestrian labor of
limp will against cosmic design.
I have a food journal.
They have a love affair.
I have bunions.
They have immortality.
Every day I drag my body to the base of the mountain to pray over it.
Lord, raise this corpus up.
Every day I hear, raise it up yourself,
I’m busy playing with the angels.
© 2002, Christine Kallman, All Rights Reserved