In the dark you stumbled and fell
on slender knees. You say it was
piles of sand that caused these
puckered wounds, how the cobalt
bruise that spreads beneath my
hand, is of no concern. As if,
any blow to flesh is the natural result
of middle-age marathon, acceptable
as rain that leaks through chimney's
flashing into drywall. I press your
kneecaps, they spring like an under-
water float, marshy against my skin.
Beneath , cruciate ligaments hold
thigh and shinbone tight as lovers.
To crack the cap like a walnut un-
locks this articulation, hinge
gliding in milky oil. This is how I grasp
your layers, bony endings cupped in palms,
flexion of knees on cinder. Upstairs,
guinea pig whistles, turns laps. I urge
you, not to jog in the dark, while Daisy,
your terrier cyclones by the door.

© 1995 by Arthur Ginsberg
Arthur Ginsberg is a Seattle neurologist and poet who won the 1986 Bumbershoot poetry competition. He is the author of a volume of poetry titled Walking the Panther (Northwoods Press, 1984) and has poetry published in several journals including Spindrift, Embers, and Prickly Pear.