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 feet. Don’t

marry him, some good friends said,

your life will be so circumscribed.

At the top of the lift, we’ve added a kiss.

We’d take the kiss without the lift, but that’s

not possible. Maybe our kiss is a gentle

fuck-you to anyone who’s watching

who thinks our life is less than theirs.

Because we like the maps, we take the trips.

Jan Heller Levi