Mikki Aronoff

THE BIG SLOW

This is not the tiny bone-safe I emerged in,
wrenched from wet into light, all scream

and resist. Eleven seven-year itches, cells
in grinding recycle, bones already in rot.

I leaf through a grimace of photos, trace
a tidy bell curve, chime to peal to knell.

My fingertips drag through the fat of old
feasts. It tastes of function and scuffle,

conjures old couplings. These days I locate
in a spaniel’s eyes liquified with worship,

in the sibilance of a moggie’s arched hiss.
Shelter there. Learn the art of tug and beg.

Like a slowing-down top wobbling over
its center, I spin to repair, over and again.

What I relished about my sinew was its irony.
Not this plunge from breast-stroke

to slump, from sweat to parch. Days I tip-toe
so as not to offend. Nights I stay up late,

contemplate hemlock’s potential.