How easily they break: racing down the hill
Tripping, the long legged Borzoi screams in pain,
Limps into the house, her foreleg
Dangling. We have been through this before:
Carry her down to the car,
Drive quickly to the vet
Where he says, with a sad shrug,
showing us the x-rays of the leg,
These bones are shattered, must be corrected.
Operate: Titanium plate, screws, hold
The fragments together, in place,
And in time she will walk again, but never
As good as new. Always the fear of racing,
the cautious descent down our hill.
We try to keep her steady, while we feel
How our own bones, aging, are equally at
Risk, a slight unsteady gait, the quick
Move that waits to trip us up, to crack
The fragile surface of the skin.
Growing old's angry learning: careful, careful.
The hesitation, the deliberate anchoring
Of foot to ground, hand to bannister,
The plodding certainty of shorter walks. Glimpses,
Of our faces, not as we remember them,
But unexpectedly old, a figment
Of our former selves.
What we expected was a gentler incline
Into age. Not this whining discontent.
The long yearning into mirrowed years that
Might have been perfected, had we but known
How long the days continuous march down concrete
Steps would take. A sumptuous total, irreversible
As corrected bones
~Adrianne Marcus
