Feet crack like chipped ice,
corrective shoes squeak all secrets.
The snap of elastic as middle-age spread
creeps across your health charts—still in
normal range of what can be measured,
the righteous rage of boxed in body
ricochets off political signs in neighbor’s yards.
You run 13 miles, take a nap.
This body scabs history from mother
to daughter into the shower of flower petals
at the finish line, the medal of survival,
heavy and bold around a young fresh neck
born running, the birth scars
shine in the light run & scab.