Martina Reisz Newberry
Basiphobia
fear of falling
What I fear these days
is not falling off a rooftop,
high bridge, or
out a 10-story window,
but off the sidewalk,
victim of a neuropathic stumble.
What if I fall crossing the street–
backpack leaving my shoulder–
white sneakers being stained
with asphalt’s dark gray
and sharp bits of rock and glass?
I watch my feet carefully,
mindful of every bump and rise in the concrete–
I see the omen of a breakneck fall
over tree roots which have grown
under the sidewalk.
I walk with my head down–
the sky will have to come to me
if it wants my attention.
People and pets must hail me
from not too far away
if they want to stop and visit.
A flashing yellow light stays in my head.
Will I trip over the doorway’s lip
on my way into the coffee shop
or will I fall on my ass
while moving a chair
to the other side of the table?
Will I fall on the slick
blue and green tiles that hug
the mailroom floor
or will I skid on wet leaves
on our bottom stair?
Who knows what might happen?
You see that, don’t you?
I’m grateful that my terror
bears a name: Basiphobia,
which sounds better than
“Old Lady Off Balance,” or
“Ain’t Ageing a Bitch”.
Basiphobia sounds
like a curable mind glitch–
one that can be handled
with a therapist, a Hurry-Cane,
or good shoes.
I think I’ll go with good shoes.
