To the man in my neighborhood who harassed me for ambulatory wheelchair use

By: Ariana Yeatts-Lonske

If you fell in a lake, 
is it possible you could tread water 
for an hour 
but not a full day?

If you carried a boulder on your back,
is it possible you could walk
for minutes 
but not infinity?

In your philosophy,
the body is simple
as a light switch
off / on
never / always

But we are nothing electric. 

Do you accuse primrose of deceiving you
during the closed bud of day?

Do you berate bears in their hibernation?

Does the flush and flutter of redbud leaves 
feel to you like falsehood?

Wheelchair, shower chair, stool and cane— 

I forage for my body every morning 
in the forest of being alive.

Poison berry, ambiguous mushroom, 
fainting pulse, numb nerves—

Some days, 
one basket full. 
Some days, 
two.

I would gather something else 
if there were anything else 
for me to gather.

These days, I dream of travel without movement. 
I dream of years without extinction. 
Species hatching back to life.

Every morning I read the reports 
and pray for mercy 
for the wrens and ferns. 

I read and pray for bodies like mine, 
caught in high heat and hurricanes. 

Neighbor, 
when the rivers rise, 
full of our fuel and fumes, 
will you carry me to higher ground? 

I can fill my pockets with seeds 
and my legs with compassion. 
You can bring your body that works 
the same every day.

Sunset, sunrise, smoke and rain—

I hear one form of disaster preparedness 
is knowing your neighbors. 

I hear the best form of disaster preparedness 
is being born in a different body. 

Did I say body? 
I meant time. 

But here is the secret: 
my sick body is closer 
to the sick body of the earth. 

Closer and hotter and shorter—

Yellow nail ridges like tree rings
Flash of skin like forest fire

Brain       like fog        like mist         like distant cloud

Anaphylaxis like tsunami swell
tree after tree collapsed
gasping at the roots

And in the future—
The future—

How do I stay? 

I search everywhere 
but all I see is you, strolling 
past my door.

What can I trust? 

I read. 
I pray. 
I walk and wheel. 
I greet my body of the day. 
I lie down on the earth still here.