ELEGY Poem: Sewn in Grit, by Vanessa Watters

When I fell from my bike, Dad said he had stopped
holding on. Once I knew it was the magic of him
that kept me upright, my gut collided with my reason,
and I hit the hot blacktop. But I got up, brushed off
the blood and the grit from torn skin, and told him
I didn’t need his hand. I balanced on the mailbox
instead, pushed off the curb, connected feet
to machine and wobbled my way through the speed.
My old man yelled at me not to cross the street,
but I was gone into the dusk, knowing damn well
the trouble would be worth it. Now, with that same
exhilaration to brace the wind—free from the bind
of passive dependence—I cast his lost spell on me.

Author: poetryfest

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