You throw yourself, to see
if the world will catch you.
It takes so long to find out.
Like that shot in Frances Ha
when the elevator cage in an old Parisian
building has closed, but Frances isn’t
rising.
Like the seconds your upper arm
is engaged as a blood-pressure cuff
contracts,
releases, contracts
to its own mechanical music
whilst you look away, away
as you do a half hour later
at the phlebotomist’s station, chatting
madly over the Christmas tunes, a small
plastic heating pad held to your inner
elbow
to bring up the blood.
These black stains on my fingers
are ink; the purple toe, a mystery.
I told the doctor my secret today;
she was looking away.
Kathleen Winter’s most recent poetry collection is “Transformer” (Word Works). She lives in Northern California
[See also: The NS Poem: Fast Music]
Content from our partners
Related
This article appears in the 25 Jul 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Special 2024