—after Louise Glϋck You die when your spirit dies. You might stand up from a café table, shift your weight onto a weakened hip, and crumble like a scone, tumbling down a flight of stairs. I remember the days before my body betrayed me, stepping smartly along Lexington on my way to some meeting or event, blithely bypassing others on the street, so keen on my own self-importance. I had plans, big plans, big ideas— nothing seemed too far-fetched or out of reach, so great was my certitude, my sense of purpose. It was, to be sure, the arrogance of youth, but essential to the tasks which lay before me. The decimation. I don’t know how to tell you this. I don’t know whether you need to know, or if you can even empathize. I wanted to run out into the street, scream no, no, no, and I did, in my dreams. Now, I may not know anymore the word for chair, but I can sit happily in one for hours, gazing out a random window, wool- gathering, or watching people as they come off the plane, vaguely dissociated, time-obsessed, desperate for the next text or call confirming their pick-up spot. I was like that once, on the move, a hunter, one of the pack. These days, the young ones in white coats and sweats nod, share glances they think I don’t see, ask me if I still practice. I tell them yes, I still practice—that I am, in fact, at the height of my powers.
C.W. Emerson (he/him), an award-winning poet, has received international recognition, including the C.P. Cavafy Poetry Prize (2018) and co-winner of the 2023-24 Poetry International Summer Chapbook competition. His work, often exploring themes relevant to LGBTQIA+ communities, has appeared in Harvard Review, Oxford University Press, and Tupelo Quarterly. Emerson is the author of Off Coldwater Canyon (2021), The Thoracic Diaries (forthcoming), and Danger Face (Wayfarer Books 2025), winner of the 2024 Homebound Poetry Prize. A retired clinical psychologist, he divides his time between southern California and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Visit theolderamericanpoet.com.