It begins with a stumble
out of bed, hip twisted
as if I wrestled God
and lost, rather than ride the flood
and thunder of an earnest lover,
middle-age being a monster
who howls for caffeine and eggs,
tries to read the future in
wet coffee grounds.
Every sin
a pulled muscle cracked tooth gray hair.
By noon I want a healing bath
haunted by angels, a place to baptize
broken wings, untwist rivers
mapping hand and legs.
Should my hips swivel
clockwise and counterclockwise
time itself would break, unravel
back to when we wanted
the thrill of drowning
without dying, the maelstrom
mislabeled love. Now I hold my breath
longer than I should when submerged,
knowing each passing year
I am more riptide than storm.
Nancy Hightower has been published in The New York Quarterly, Spry, Heavy Feather Review, storySouth, Gargoyle, Sundog Lit, and Joyland. Her first collection of poetry, The Acolyte, was published in 2015 by Port Yonder Press.