By Eleven
yet I set my foot down
in the same
places I did when
steps were there
without even thinking
about them
W.
S. Merwin
from
“Footholds”
It’s only in the dark when I count them, and only
going down, all the weight in my upper leg
as silent a sole as I can muster—I count
and by ten I’m guessing again. Is this ten?
Because between two and nine I’m drifting
back up the stairs, to the bedroom, or down them all
completely, so that I’m in the kitchen, or out-
side, starting my truck, shoveling snow. (It’s
April. There’ll be
more snow.) I’m quick, lifting
my foot against it all, against what’s solid
beneath them, like a swift kiss on the cheek
when the kids run out the door, into the wind,
to the farewell melt, ignoring the brown grass.
I’m an old woman by step ten, a nerve
my feet are long married to now, and I’m still
counting, yes, two more to go to solid
ground. Do you ever
miss eleven? Simply skip
right over him so that from ten to the bottom
it’s flight, it’s almost a fall, until landing is letting go
of the banister, which, now that I’m thinking
about doing it but not doing it, what do I do
first? Step or let
go? It’s an awful lot to trust,
isn't
it
hoping that something solid is what waits for us
while we hover, like a bubble newly blown, out
of the ring completely, and sealed, landing, unlike us,
momentarily on the next to the last step.
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