janet doggett

 

 

Death, Maybe?


Exhaustion: running

The pounding of one foot and then the other
Into the give of the spring-loaded track
For miles until sweat beads gather and pool
At my back. The loud exhalation of breath,
The heaviness, the weight the body has become.
Then comes the fall, like sleeping
Or death maybe – as I lay down
In the dorm room, clad with muddy shoes and soiled shorts.
The weight begins to slough off like the old fur wrap your
Grandmother wore to the opera. There becomes a certain lightness
Of being. Like so many cocoons opening. Maybe you sprout angel wings.
However, all that is the essence of you is rising above your body.
Try and process the fact that there are now two of you. One on the bed
and one looking at the one on the bed.
Look down. And see yourself just as you are – or were then:
Young, thin, tan, toned, angled, blue eyes shut,
Long brown wavy hair, sneakers untied. And all
You can think is: I’m going to be caught dead in this?


Janet Doggett is a writer-poet with a master’s degree in creative writing from Texas Tech University. She has had creative nonfiction essays published in the literary journals So-to-Speak and Tangents. She also won the “Best Creative Writing”
award in 2003 at the Pop Culture Conference in Albuquerque. She lives in Massachusetts.
 




 

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