Sue Ellis

I recall, as I grip the handrail
and cautiously descend the back steps,
how I used to fly down the open staircase
in our two-story farmhouse,
feet skimming the treads.

I´d have a laundry basket beneath one arm,
a child, or some such--
the index and middle fingers of my free hand
skiing down the balustered rail,
completing the circuit of energy
between polished mahogany, static
electricity, and bone.

I´d sometimes forget to eat on hectic days,
realizing I was hungry only after the
symphonic thrumming inside my veins
had quieted to a single, pure note.