Walking Through It

I could be a paper doll
Joined at each joint
With brads at each bending
So that all the parts would move
At least in one direction

But these brads are heated
Metal red-hot, as if it had been left
In the heart of a fire
So blistering to the touch
That it would scorch fingers
And make the paper crisp and curl

Pain at each bending
Bone deep aching stretched between
For I have been walking
Just walking

I’ll wake tomorrow
With the anguish doubled
Brads burned immobile
Frozen with fire
Bound into angry knots

So I’ll break the static heat rust
On the hinges
Slide them back and forth
Forth and back
Until they move
With a crusted cracking
That rains down ash

I’ll sigh
Stretch
Survive
And I'll

Walk


©Edwina Peterson Cross