Poetry

Because We Like the Maps

we take the trips. The car is ready, packed. The adventurer waits patiently. We hug each other, count to 3.   I lift. It’s got to be one uninterrupted lift from wheelchair to his feet. But there’s an instant,   midway, when the adventurer hangs in my arms between rising and falling—his chest tilts forward,   his butt juts back, his jeans ride down, his shirt rides up, his belly dangles in the gap—   it isn’t dignified. And then we find the click. It’s like we’re both holding on and both letting go—hallelujah—he’s   up. On his own two…

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