Edith

All I’ve done all my life is disobey.

Edith Piaf

It starts with the ribs. In the dark

of morning I grasp for breath. Feel

into the ribs. Did I pull a muscle

in my sleep? At this age I pull

muscles everyday, looking this way

or that way, stepping off a curb.

But, sleeping? No, this one is

story-attached. Corset-binding.

A thread woven in between each

rib. I try to wish it away but even

with the ocean sway of my

husband’s breath I cannot lull

myself back to sleep. So I lie.

In the dark with stories. And try

to breathe. Until my caffeine-needing

brain drags me into the kitchen,

where I gulp down hot black coffee

and head out into the day. Now

bright with sun so blinding that it

blocks my view of one of those

sky-blue delivery bicycles, going

the wrong way on a red. Coming

straight for me. And he cuts

it so close I can feel the swish-swash

on my arm hair. And he passes

so fast I miss the moment

to scream the few curse words I

know in Hebrew. And now I’m

grumbling. And now I’m feeling

a racing of the heart. And tightness

of the ribs and the memory of close

calls. I shuffle up the slippery

freshly rained upon street. Strewn

with leaves. And try not to fall. And

abide by the lights and stay in my

pedestrian lane. And make it to

class on time. Which I do, barely.

And still feel the heart and the

ribs. And try to smile. And breathe.

And stay far away from the lady

who gets too close and wacks me

in the head. With her freedom

of movement. I close my eyes.

Wait in pre-teacher silence. Then,

I hear. French jazz. Mid-1940s.

I see Edith Piaf. In her seductive

self-possession. Her never-ending

non-apologeticness. Her non-permission

requesting. Eyes closed, I sway.

I am on stage. In Paris. Corset-clear.

Breath infinite. Singing into

dry desert air. Echoes. For me

alone. Transfixed. And ninety minutes

later, I walk home. In the wrong

lane. Into all the reds.