somewhere to rest

how unfair that once I thought it was clever to blame my body

for the wounds in me… —Kwame Dawes


I found that I am still a part of my body—always,

I do this. I forget again.


Today I strike my foot on the cold lip

of my tub. Today I do nothing.


For quite some time I have forgotten to give

myself over to rest. Today I lie on the floor, the ceiling


that asks nothing, white stucco and cobwebs.

I remember instead today’s perfection, each delight


I can’t quite recall. What my body was like or how

it happened. My bones. I could remember them harder,


stronger—less brittle, or the same all along

so tender and soft. On


the bedstand the sun lies down, heavy

on my books, my body, a body come to rest. I want


each time I climb from ache to ache

not to forget that this will be over


before I can know it. Perhaps memory will scatter

volumes everywhere, open


pages, spread them to age and amber, yes—

unfurling where warm hands can hold, lift, carry us


                             somewhere to rest.

Morgan Hamill is a graduate fellow at Penn State-University Park. Her poems appear in Cimarron Review, Copper Nickel, the Georgia Review, the Southern Review, and elsewhere.