Shaking hands, dead tingling of extremities;
how often the blood refuses to flow from shoulder
to hand, unnatural. In the mornings, when arms are dead,
or fake dead, or just pretending, she shrugs while trapped in bed;
conversations at the ceiling say good morning, how
funny- let's laugh. What if she loses
them for a day, free to dangle awkwardly
from her body, like imposed weights across
shoulders, heavy with gravity. Arms follow
the spin of the earth, the pace of her stride,
the distance of her wandering.
Flop-flip-floap-tingle twingle.
Are your arms ok?
