yesterday they carved a space in my bones
dug out pieces of me that my own body
had already evicted
and now these fresh cut nerves
can feel you on the porch
knocking the mud from your boots
they buzz with the open g of your guitar
rattle with the wind
and hum with the dog’s snore
your breath
I recline in the electric chair
a post-op sentence exclusive of verbs
except knit, purl, sit, stay, and ponder
today the demeanor of a stuffed seat
the way its open arms call to me
the way its lap pats itself
come here, bubbala
implores me to rest awhile
secure in a gentle
upholstered hug
today NPR celebrates Keith Richards
older than my mother and still jamming
while I can only rock a size 12
circular Susan Bates needle
pink plastic soundlessly
whipping moonlight mohair
and variegated bouclé
into scarf-ness
cutting lengths of yarn
into yards of lunatic fringe.
soon they will come for the chair
a bittersweet goodbye
so tomorrow I will lay down
this comfortable wool and practice
navigate the dogs and lighted tree
inch closer to the miles of steps
I’ll traverse to climb back
into the skin of the sunset chaser
and crow spier and the fierce doer
of all her doable things.