Wet Pavement, Burning Lungs

For months the body was cargo,

something I hauled from bed

to desk to bed,

a suitcase I couldn't unpack

or set down.

Then Tuesday — no reason,

or no reason I can name —

I laced the shoes I'd left

by the door since March

and walked out at dawn.

The pavement was still wet

from overnight rain. The sky

that grey that's almost silver,

the river flat and serious.

I started slow. Then faster.

My lungs caught fire

and it was good. It was

the first thing I'd felt

below the neck in weeks —

this burning, this stupid

gorgeous friction of air

against tissue, of sole

against wet ground,

the slap of it,

each footfall a small

announcement: here,

here, here.

I didn't run far.

Maybe fifteen minutes.

I stopped at a bench

and bent over, hands on knees,

breathing like I'd just been born

badly, all gasps

and graceless effort.

A man walked past with a bag of bread.

The city was opening.

I could feel my legs.

I stood there, soaked in sweat

and ordinary light,

and for once the body said mine

and I didn't argue.