goodness

My feet went on strike 
        this week.
"No more." they said,
and now we all grimace
        under ice packs
                                  stinging

Last night
I awakened with a
       start, dreaming
already out of my sweaty bed
      onto my crumpled feet--
my sleep world hounded
      by my doings or
      something left undone
"who am i, who am i, who am i"
      (my heart pounds)

This episode has 
          aired before.
I am here again seeking,
         desperate in exhaustion.
I am that thing, like in darkness,
          you see fleetingly 
                  out of the corner of your eye
that when viewed
          squarely, disappears;
Present and perceptible
          only in motion.

Imagine that
my grandmother had known
how to recklessly lounge about,
      not producing
      important documents
      and well-rounded meals?
What if she had tossed the tinfoil
       right into the trash, and
       thrown her delicate
paper sewing patterns into
                 a     messy     heap
                 in the corner?

Frankly,
her daughters could have left
        their beds unmade,
shamelessly spent entire days
reading romance novels,
        supine in their motivation,
and lavishly embracing their
                        own indolence.

Care
(do I dare?)
for myself.
Like a meadow of blowing wildflowers
I want to know no compulsion
                  to explain or act.
Like the unapologetic air
                  in my lungs.
"I am here now"
(I whisper in the dark),
wearing my own goodness
                 like skin.