All night it contemplates its grievances,
its ire cranking tighter still, till at six
when I stumble to the kitchen
to light the kettle, the taut fascia shrills

through the dark, all the way up calf
and thigh and belly to the brain.
It is literally my Achilles heel, literally
my sole that troubles, hobbles me.

If you let such an injury go for too long
without an answer, it will set up house
and stay forever. I knew this, but never
did repent. I try to reason with it now,

perhaps too late, entreat it to be flexible,
meet me halfway, heal while I sleep.
No such luck. My haughty arches, guardians
of that stiff tendon and its tendency to balk,

shrink further up, as if to touch my shoes
were no longer merely physically beneath them.
My leg rent by schisms, my heels now pained
by all the countless tiny rifts it’s taken years to tear.