It's been more than a year since I fell on the ice in the dark parking lot outside the Jazzercise studio. I parked on the other side to avoid the multiple cars backing out, but that meant I had a longer walk on unsalted asphalt. At this new studio, we have no room to store weights, so I carry mine in each night. That evening I held my mat, water bottle, keys, and weights tightly as a slipped downward so fast only my elbow halted my fall. I thought nothing of the hit, thinking I'd just have a bad bruise until I looked at the arm at home and saw a misshapen stump swelling beyond recognition. A friend took me to urgent care and nearly vomited when he saw the x-ray that sent me to the emergency room and surgery the same night.
I've nearly recovered from the break but still feel the plate holding bones together and the long scar that puckers when I lift weights. Here's a poem about my recovery:
“Ode to Joy” empties her
in repeated
counts of eight
joy-ful joy-ful
we a-dore thee
each verse
a mantra
a meter
measuring how long
to hold a head stand
or the weight
she dangles
to stretch a plated elbow
a screen
a decoy
masking how high
to rate pain
or the long red wrinkle
she kneads
to soften a scarred knob
a disguise
an orb spider
decorating a
figurative web
adding ornaments
to warn predators
and attract prey.
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