Walking Backward
I go to PT for my hip, and they have me
walk a narrow hallway backward, repeating
the slow journey five times. Tell me to do
this twice a day at home as well. Apparently,
putting your feet down toe first improves
range of motion. For the first week or so
I don't, worried my neighbors might
see me, but when I'm taking my garbage
to the chute, I revolve front to back and
make my way to the end of the hall and
back again to the elevators, concentrating
on this movement as ritual, the word
"widdershins," reversed tarot cards,
momentarily surprised I've not backed
myself into that morning or yesterday
or even further, to whatever point one year,
two years ago when I could crash back
into myself and stop the bad decision
making at its source. But nothing
in the world's shape has changed. You're
as far away as ever, the things I said
impossible to recover. Downstairs
in this now that I can't help but inhabit,
I'll head north on Sheridan to a small park
along the lake. I'll walk facing forward
because it's my only real option: pigeons
courting around me, flowers newly in bloom.
