Ordinarily, your shoes stay on your feet,
your feet on the earth.
Your skin holds you, dutifully, in its
serviceable sack.
Your bones lift you about your business,
sway in passing breezes.
The day unfolds, largely unnoticed,
water under the bridge.
Traffic rumbles with white noise static.
A little work, a little small talk,
and you are home again, dog waiting patiently
to go out. But suddenly,
there is no ordinary. What you came with
scatters. You flail
in a sudden wind, cracking and tearing.
Strangers lean in
to staunch your spilling. Men in uniform yell,
whipping the chaos
until it stiffens. Lucky, they call you after, meaning
alive if damaged,
part of a new ordinary called coping; You remain
un- convinced.
Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in Oyez, The Cincinnati Review, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Trailhead Magazine VCFA, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.
Art, titled “Sleep Without Words” by Joseph M. Gerace/Wikipoem.org.
