by Christine Adams Beckett
For My Own Two Annes
I take a load off with my
Own personal Robbie Robertson
Twice weekly these days,
Desperate for emotional health
And the strength to understand images
That surge through my
Subconscious and wakeful
I release The Weight. With knowledge and growing
Wisdom, but recognition that
My able, middle-aged body
Is inflicted by injuries that are
Tiny tears in my fibrous achilles tendon
Introduce my own Paris of Troy:
Repetitive stress and a yearning
For therapeutic purging, a drug
Surging something that feels
Like youth in my muscles and connective
I felt the twinge at mile five
Of a ten mile loop, forcing me to
Consider: how I’ll finish the other half.
To walk was prolonging the misery.
To run with a hobble
Was faster, and tricked me into thinking
My own mother might have been more successful
Than Thetis in dipping me into the River
My own personal maternal nymph, a Connecticut-born
Thetis, understood, intimately, all that could
Harm me, tried desperately to completely cover me
With protective, divine water. Yet she missed the same
Spot at the back of my own vulnerable
Contemplate a Shakespearean actor, seemingly
Floating upon the stage, who fights the natural tendency of
His feet, well hidden under theatrical crinoline
Working strenuously to masquerade his masculine
A duck floating effortlessly across a partially frozen lake
Subaqueously and exhaustively pumps his orange webbed feet.
A housewife presents her perfectly manicured cupcakes
To the collective table, yet had to yell at her own children,
Returning them to a state of submission,
To ice them.
I limped into mile eight and ignored the bearded man
In a pick-up, in plaid, “You were cookin’ by the State Park!
What happened?” I contemplated telling him that
I couldn’t hide my orange feet or my temper.
Instead, I respond:
Life happened, Lumberjack. But I’m just about to pull
Into Nazareth with my own personal
So I don’t need a ride.