Risk Assessment
Every woman I know who runs has broken something:
a hip, a knee, an ankle—a litany of joints missing cartilage.
After six miles tonight, I mark a hot spot on the bridge
of my left foot and tomorrow I know the knee
torqued years ago will click with each step. I say six
miles as if it was a sure thing. It was not a sure thing.
A year ago, I did not know if I could go for three,
and I am still unused to the knowledge that yes, I can,
I have, I could—once again—run my finger from Argo
Livery to Barton Dam, and later carry myself that same
distance and back before the sun sets. My hand on the map,
I can understand why we push ourselves to breaking.
Having felt, I cannot forget the urge to confirm that if
the need arose I would be able to touch the pavement and go.
Living Alone in the Rainy Season
I lived six floors above street level.
Every day it rained—usually in the afternoon,
usually preceded by wind that scraped
dead leaves from the hospital’s driveway.
When the elevator brought me to the ground,
it was already raining. I ran anyway—rain
licking from my shoulders like the lightly
lashing tail of a cat I saw disappearing
beneath a bush around the corner
from where the cabs waited with trunks
unfurled, yawning shelter for the drivers
caressed by cigarette smoke as they watched
their clients dry beneath the driving
range’s metal roof, sending their small
white balls flying out into the rain—
the rain that whispered into the canal
at low tide while I ran across the bridge.
I ran on the wrong side of the road
into the rain dark wanting what I could
not name except as the gleam of headlights
into the courtyard wreathed in detritus where
I stepped and my ankle turned, curling
around a fallen fruit tucked beneath the leaves.
I did not fall, though—airborne—I wondered
which would meet the ground faster:
my skin or the still falling rain.
Back at my building, I saw again the cat
that had scattered across my path
as the rain fell. He was dry, cleaning
himself beneath an empty chair.
I cry watching women run
on TV, around an oval, down a street
barricaded to keep the traffic out.
Women run and I wonder at a road
safe enough for muscle failure,
hamstring cramp, leave it all
on the track and no backup plan.
I cry when they cry, sometimes
in defeat but more often when they win.
When a woman throws up her fists
and screams—that’s when my breath
catches high in my chest.
I cry again watching the replay:
why shouldn’t we all slow down
and watch her win, again, and again.
Jasmine An is from the Midwest. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Naming the No-Name Woman (Winner of the 2015 Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize) and Monkey Was Here (Porkbelly Press 2020). Her creative work can be found online in journals such as Poetry Northwest, Waxwing, and Guesthouse, among others, or at jasmineanho.com.Â