It Is Not Much

I sit on my ankles.

It is painful.

Yet, every often I settle,

they find themselves

trapped beneath my weight.

Some days,

I feel as if

an elephant

snapping sugar canes.

Other times,

I am like

a flamingo hiding fragile

ligaments from salt shackles.

Mostly, I resemble

a cat conserving warmth,

as comfortable as

can be atop her precarious

perch.

It is a weakness

worsened

by the concealment of it,

unabated, unwanted,

yet undoubtedly mine.

So I sit, then rise,

and recognize

the torment

of self destruction.

It is not just my ankles.

It is my stomach,

my hands, my soul.

In the wild,

vulnerable creatures

hide their pain to fool

opportunistic hunters.

Yet, a pigeon once

visited my backyard,

limping, tired,

comforted by seed

offerings,

and she stopped sitting

on her ankles.

Trapped beneath

the weight of confusion,

self soothing

became independence

and then distance.

Every often, I am a child,

fists in lap,

staring at plaster,

and my feet know

they will never slow

once we get going.

So I sit on my ankles.

It is painful

but not as awful

as the tragedy

of a fledgling

forsaken to the soil

of a stranger who was not

kind enough

to offer seeds, or water,

or shelter.

On rare occasion,

I settle,

soles grounded, knots exposed.

It is awkward,

like a sapling

leaning too far

sideways, sun-basking.

And only then,

I am a newborn,

howling,

demanding every comfort

I have ever needed

from this earth.

It is not much.

***

Hello, wanderer!

If you liked this poem, you may enjoy this little series about birds, and dogs, and happiness.

xoxo, for now

-your friend, trying not to sit on her ankles