is the name of the trail I run
not really knowing my way back
to the chalet where my husband and children sit
not knowing where I am either.
At the top I turn, look at the sea and think
how convenient the way the tides
take the bodies away
how convenient for some.
The sea is a blue too lazy to match the sky
which, in any case, is grey,
and I am about to chance my arm for another decade.
Does chancing your arm mean
the arm might get cut off?
Might I end up armless, spluttering on salt,
losing limb after limb in the surf
while my husband and children
sit in their brightly lit chalet
no body running the wooded path back to them?