Astonished by Survival

By Melissa Joplin Higley

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Bright red oozes from
a 3mm drain hole in my
left breast. I’m told
the puckered incision
will smooth in time.
The garden’s redbud
glows fuchsia against
the graying sky. So,
maybe? Did you know
a spider has no muscles,
so shoots fluid into its legs
to move and capture prey?

I spread my fingers wide,
see the bones branching,
the skin webbing. Maybe,
this is another poem
about memory. I discover
falling down the stairs
is easy. I could do it
in my sleep. At night,
unaware, I stop breathing.
My body jolts awake—
survival’s burning grasp
for air. What else is there?
I’ve seen a pursued rabbit
run across the yard,
billowing against itself
like a white flag