Shifting
Bend
In the library stacks,
Some must see insanity
In our repetition.
I see the past.
Enough as She Is
Books from bottom shelves
Lean, crouch
So You Want to Talk About Race
To top shelves
Rolled away to bottom shelves
Malinche, Pocahontas, and Sacagawea:
Indian women as cultural intermediaries and national symbols
Squat, stoop
That become top shelves.
Writings of Farm Women: An anthology
I thank my morning workout for my flexibility
I chastise that same workout for fatigue
But, these past years have all been about fatigue
Fatigue is over extension
The reach of my heart suctioned
Throws a straw to quench a thirst claimed
But blood does not fight dehydration
Blood is not water.
Fatigue is waiting for waiting
For the waiting and their waiting to end
Pumping, pounding, ticking, counted seconds.
On hand over knee
I press the wheel away cart.
It squeaks.
It rolls.
I shift.
Carry
In the library stacks,
Some must see insanity
In our repetition
I see what could have been.
Wrists strained. Volumes tumble.
No matter the weather mornings, the shoulder bag flew
Air to wing without feathers.
I shift.
Bear. Bring. Lug.
Small Business Resource Center
Short or long hours
Later that same shoulder tilts to an angle
That dares the ground to catch its windfall.
Canning, Homesteading, Gardening
I carried a section
(to tables)
Of each section
(to chairs)
Where I sat then, didn’t matter
Though I couldn’t find comfort.
But, these past years have all been about fatigue.
Fatigue is waiting for waiting
For the waiting and their waiting to end
Swatting sounds. Thumping pages.
Haul. Hold. Move.
Whispers muted. Heads tilted.
Flicking, tipping, blinking, skimmed pages
I stretch.
Space.
I shift.
Find
In the library stacks,
Some must see insanity
In our repetition.
I see the never was.
Tied Up in Knots: How getting what they wanted has made women miserable
But, these past years have all been about fatigue.
The untying of knots, the sifting of strings
Loose and without purpose.
Spot. Discover. Come across.
Sideways on a Scooter: Life and love in India
Not India, but Guatemala, corte tucked under hand and over moped seat
Fatigue is waiting for waiting
For the waiting and their waiting to end
Unrequited love. Borrowed lives.
Calendar squares climb up to balance scales dressed as cupboard shelves.
Books from bottom shelves
To top shelves
Rolled away to bottom shelves
Hit upon. Locate. Stumble upon.
That become top shelves.
The World Until Yesterday
In the sections, where the known words
Became new ones,
I see them in unfamiliar places
New Gaps left by weeded black and white woven fibers
Make me see them
I stand up.
“Leave a hand’s width at the edge.”
I shake the wrinkles from my knees that gathered water.
Move.
I measure my hand, fingers tight,
A kind of wave.
Move on.
I
Shift.
