Closest to the beat of all of it
even the same laps doggedly
that thirty years of it have laid
a jewel inside of tiny green directions.
Emerald to press against in lifts
when the body sinks into the silt of itself
and work could be a wrong turn in the history of
are hard on the mind like bitter when the mind is.
Runs are joyous when the flying hormone says so.
Up ahead go
all the mid-life women that I love from Boadicea
to Anne Carson in a fleet of silver trees. Not
one of us amazed
by the sorrow a body can carry from a racing start
nor by what light shakes out. Lately
I got older and my dog too
bumping my heel like a steaming gold thurible.
It is cold and Nell says
when you die
what is the spike of clear joy you will pass through.
Breaking over and over
this my green field this my slackly happy nag.
TIFFANY ATKINSON’s most recent collection, Lumen (Bloodaxe 2021) was a Poetry Book Society Recommendation. She lives in Norwich where she teaches at the University of East Anglia, and runs the MA Creative Writing (Poetry).