The Flare
by Connie Gutowsky
When ankles feel a million bees
stinging at once
She steps as though shackled
out of the shower, trying not to fall
When fingers can’t pour boiling water from a kettle
for the oolong tea
Can’t hold a pencil to write
or open the palette to paint
Can’t pull up the quilt
to cover bare shoulders in bed
Immobile, swollen, she rests with feet up, thinking about:
A bucket of bruised apples
The salt of marriage long after the wedding
Bridges corroding in silence
The frightened eyes of migrating kids
Centuries of tribal mayhem
A scrappy woman shuffling her cart
full of discarded whatnots.