Mirrors

I carry memory in the joints of my appendages,

in the knuckles of my fingers,

in the crook of my toes.

I remember pressing my shoulder against foam and steel,

I remember the smell and feel of a sweaty floor mat,

the breath of another boy as we strained,

the willpower to not flinch,

to connect,

to treat one’s body as if it were a disposable thing,

a thing made to be used up until there was nothing left.

Everything is a little more gentle now.

I stretch as I walk,

turn my head,

windmill my arms.

I look like a wind-up toy let loose on the kitchen table.

Back home,

I am so tired I push the cat aside and lie down under the covers

and almost let myself be taken by sleep.

The chickens are counting clouds and eating dirt.

Sometimes I let my arm hang limp like a broken wing

because it is easier that way.

I do not wonder if I will grimace.

I walk like I am pretending to lure a predator away.

I walk like a man who was once shaped by his body.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog