Somehow, I never learned to compromise with gravity.
I’ve been told I move like a drunken camel
or a newborn giraffe on ice skates.
I say it’s just bad genetics.

I’m from a family of shaking hands,
bullet hole egos,
and wobbly knees,
all of us clumsy with our hearts and each other.

It’s no wonder I trip over my own apologies,
stumble at a pretty smile,
falter at opportunity...
This is apples and trees all over again,
and nobody likes bruised fruit.

I am all bruises.
I fall
-over anything,
-into everything,
-for everyone.

There’s a secret to moving gently
that my ancestors forgot to share.
So, this Irish heart runs
on Romanian magic and beats
to the irregular tune of
mis-matched feet
skipping over sidewalk cracks.

Really, I don’t mind the bruises,
The doors turned windows,
the sound of shattering glass.
I just wish I could stop before I smashed
Grandma’s dusty Chinaware and antique mirrors.