“A body falls like a story: / beginning, middle, end.” — Amy Newman

Except in my case — my falling came to an abrupt halt. The back staircase was slick with rain, and I slipped on my first step, holding Aidan — who was entirely unhurt —

(I sprained an ankle once falling down our front staircase holding Vincent, and he too was unhurt — I’m very good at holding my boys, but not, apparently, at walking down stairs.)

— and as my feet flew before me, my middle, i.e., coccyx, skidded hard down several steps before coming to a solid smack of a landing. It was a ridiculous thing to have done, as Vincent pointed out (“Mommy! You’re supposed to hold on to the railing!”). And painful. Yes, oh my, painful, yes. I broke my bottom.

Naturally, because I have impeccable timing, I’m in a nebulous in-between as I continue to wait for MassHealth to consider my application for health insurance. Purgatorio. So it’s days of Tylenol and side-sitting ahead. Oy.

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I’ve been reading Poetry in Person, a fantastic collection of interviews of poets who visited Pearl London and her poetry class. Every single interview has had something wonderful to offer.

Transfixed as I am by my current injury, I’m struck by this comment by Molly Peacock: “I think of forms as skeletons, not cages.”

Not a cage to struggle against. Something to build on, something to hold the pieces together. Not merely a structure, but a core.

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The boys are trying very hard to be quiet, so something naughty must be afoot.