Steady
Sometimes I step outside
our family river,
out of the flow
that sometimes floats me
from Monday to Thursday,
from January to June,
that sometimes pushes past my wading knees,
sometimes dunks me in an overwhelming joy,
sometimes dunks me long enough and hard enough
to make my hands scrabble along the bottom,
seeking purchase, direction, traction,
seeking up and out.
Sometimes I step outside
not to smoke a cigarette
or take a brisk walk
but to catch my breath,
to catch it like a firefly in a jar,
to hold it close
and look at its flash and burn,
to feel myself big and strong
for once
to feel that I could crush the glass
with my overcharged and pulsating hands,
these hands that pet my children’s heads,
that steer our car,
that feed hungry meters,
that stir sugar into strong cups of coffee,
that touch my husband’s soft ear lobe,
that shove themselves deep deep
into my jeans pockets
to steady themselves
steady themselves
steady.