Still

Still

after Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth

When I was seven I split

my lip, having tripped running

after my brothers, stained

the brittle straw ground straw-

berry pink. When I was eight,

a stroll became a spill, gravity stealing

my bones from my skeleton. I remember

the silt in my teeth: sticky,

strange, salt—a sting

on my tongue.

The day came when the stairs grew

too steep for me to stall.

At sixteen, I went to the dance,

but left when I could

not stand any longer. Twisted,

my knees shook

into each other like blind

deer. Steer me

from stillness, I begged

the doctors, & my mother stood shaking

her head. They declared my strength

gone—stripped—nothing

left to stitch together.

She cannot stand

or step or stretch, they said:

our recommendation is

she stop trying. Still I strapped

in, strapped on those stiff

scuffed shoes. Even stick-

thin I strung the belt around my waist

over the dress soft

as sunset. I am not yet

a statistic. Still

I crawl strong, strut

across fields wistful

but steeled, like a

spine, stare at the static

hanging heavy

above me. Lightning

will strike.

Sitting in the window, Alvaro calls

safety first. But part of me

would like to stay:

I am no statue. I am still

strong enough to watch

the starving

          storms stun life

into wasted trees.

This piece was previously published in The Metaphysical Review, Issue I.