Tempest in the Cerebellum

I fell. On a flat sidewalk on a snowless, iceless, sun-streaked afternoon. No impetus of flail: palms, then elbows in catch of concrete, then belly, knees, & pinch of chin in aftershock; a body in sweep of inertia held close to gravity’s chest: mother’s arms missing my touch. Slow motion in the blink, blink of eyelids processing scene: I lay, blocks from my destination, visible to the lawns, visible to those behind hedges & panes & corneas & lenses & retinas & optic nerves—cerebellum failing, too, momentarily in trance. How we can’t think ourselves outside the physical limbs & muscles & organs & flesh that circumvent us through time & space. We are our own riddle’s riddle. We, delicacy thrown. What are we: Egg? Or moment of hatch? Shell seconds before crack? Beak inside—peck, peck, peck? Comb & wattle: a future maturation? Hen in incubation? Hen in whisper of lay? I lay—a display—mainly a repository amid my own tempest of brain in whir & burrow. I can’t remember the seconds on ground, minutes even. I remember seeing foxglove, blooms of bells enticing; how compounds of berries used to treat heart failure—ingestion effects similar to that of unregulated heart medicine. Mind, not unlike the foxglove: three parts beauty on the verge of one part toxicity. I wanted to blame. I wanted to blame the light rail for ten seconds later; I wanted to blame the sidewalk for unevenness, for cracks or shoddy craftsmanship; I wanted to blame the word craftsmanship & all patriarchal undertones & why constantly on guard cycles & cycles; I wanted to blame the heat, the desert for taking & absorbing my liquid, making my ankles & feet swell; I wanted to blame my dormant clitoris, the lack of orgasms, yearning for a person 500 miles away at the foothills of the Rockies; I wanted to blame the tingling in my throat & chest for being another brown woman as spectacle; I wanted to blame a god, an Old Testament god, for the story of gardens & snakes & ovaries & blood as fault lines & all metaphors of the fall; I wanted to blame discoveries of new black holes for not sucking me in & up just bit more; I wanted to blame discovery & lack of a brief pause, how only if my attention diverted, how one second behind; how one second behind. I turned over & sat up to a Chihuahua barking five feet from me, squatting as if to pee. I barked back. Just once. We both got up, walked away part bruised, part satisfied.

Image: Photo by Melani Sosa, via Unsplash.