Gymnasts use chalk billowing in white
smoky clouds to clutch the high bars.  But heights
frighten me. I never land on my feet. I’ve gotten
rope burns from the tug-of-wars over the years that I’ve

endured. I’ve developed calluses from gripping
the line tightly. Anxiety is expressed in water droplets,
as dew on the morning lawn. It makes it impossible
to hold on when sweat is rolling off. To think what they

used to do, from learning to tie my shoes, to taking care
of a home and family. Now my digits hang as old
sow teats flapping in the breeze. They’ve turned into a
Tin Lizzie, a rusty vehicle that barely moves.  It maddens
me to see an infant’s grasp,

a natural reflex, as hairs on a Venus Fly Trap. The soft,
tiny rows can swallow any bug whole. Old age has swollen
the palms; arthritis has done harm. I have the lines and
creases on both the left and right. They form the letter “M”
to remind me I’m still married.