My knees ache, my right
Achilles pinches, especially
uphill. This run’s really
just a jog—no sub-eight-
minute miles. Even before
7am, black flies halo
my head, deer flies nip
between my shoulder
blades. Bug spray stinks
but doesn’t daunt
those spotted wings—
smack one, it never
falls. The gravel road’s
potholed but edged
with late-blooming
wood asters, overhung
by hickory, maple, oak.
My chin rains.
How old’s too old
to run? Drivers scan
me when they rattle
past, most swerve
wide and gawk.
A few don’t see
me until the last
second, so I’m
ready to jump
into the ditch
despite its lush
poison ivy mat.
Three times a week
I take this route,
heat or cold or wet,
fog, sun, or snow.
My sister-in-law
says I don’t like
running, I like
having run. Both
are good, I think,
remembering how,
if a shark stops
swimming, it
sinks.
–
Farm girl, rock climber, and professor, Karen Kilcup feels fortunate to be getting old. Her book The Art of Restoration received the 2021 Winter Goose Poetry Prize, and her chapbook, Red Appetite, received the 2022 Helen Kay Poetry Chapbook Prize. She recently published a second collection, Feathers and Wedges.