Invalidity

A poem about holding disability softly

They hold the door for me,
some holdover of civility.
But there is no hustle in these hips today
and the switch flips when I 
become inconvenience.
Their patience is tried,
and though they try to hide it 
smile hardens to grimace,
a subtle shiver, loud as a shatter 
shakes the foundation of my infirmity.
Chivalry persists,
but now secure in superiority
over my apparent disposability,
their eyes veil and I am gone,
they no longer see me walk in,
only a specter of what one 
hopes to never be.
One who cannot pose appropriately 
in this poised and poisoned place.

This brush with the 
invisibility of disability
was breezy, a soft stirring 
of slightly yellow leaves.
Though this patient will try,
there will be tempests of disgust,
shame will blur the edges of name,
I will slow down the line
I will need them to take more time,
I will be unable to hide
the inevitability they fear:

We are only ever, at best, 
temporarily able-bodied.
Loss is our only promise.
The cost of life is decay,
and every strength will 
one day betray.

Invalid, a word to name a person ill
invalid, we say, when something is untrue,
no longer useful,
has no value,
veiled in 
inability.

The rot of forest floor
replete with fern and moss
bearing endless possibility;
green trees risen from fallen giants;
broken branches formed into bowers
and birdnests
remind me nothing is ever
wasted: weakness is the way 
of the ever-weaving world.
Validity is perception;
value a choice.

In this endless bed,
this inexorable exhaustion
there is a door
to a place where all our parts can rest
and we are to never too slow,
never too late to be redeemed
or rather, never needful of redemption.
Never outside the cycle 
of decomposition and growth.
When I find it, I'll hold that door 
open for us both.