The Fall

It was the opposite of a drop-the-mic moment.

A mistake that took the starch right out of me, 

reversed my signature chutzpah, that constant 

store of energy, the basis of my reputation. 

Zealous about accumulating rote and senseless steps,

I failed to respect humidity and scorching heat,

after flying and driving cross country without sleep. 

I trekked along uneven pavement and found myself 

on the ground dazed from the event, tried to lift myself 

toward the ice machine in the hotel. 

Post-ER, with flinty fingers and hands boxed in plaster, 

I could do nothing alone. I bumbled ahead 

lamenting what I had done, with no memory of the event. 

Later with physical therapy I watch each finger 

struggle to move a centimeter, calling each morsel 

of progress a result, each little mountain of modest success. 

And now I have slowed to beautiful vowels of eyesight 

as I co-choreograph with patient, brilliant minds 

the movement of my hands becoming little Martha Grahams 

along the surface and whisper the belief we will survive.