Carrying my Pre-Stroke Self

Terrified to lose
her, I haul my old
self on my back
for three whole years.

She used to whisper
go, go, go!

But then she
was suddenly
silent.

Like Orpheus
I didn’t want to look
for fear she would
disappear.

I carried
her through
damp dark,
past trees
spooked blue.

I hauled
her through the inky
river. When I could
no longer touch
the silky silt with my feet,
her weight nearly
dragged me under.
I gulped for air,
kicked madly
with my one good leg.
She nearly
drowned me.

I got a whiff
of something rotten.
I felt my heart
break.

I shrugged her off
my back and she slumped
in a gray pile
at my feet.
Her face was bloated.
She was dead.

It was time
to let her go.

I gazed hard at her
one last time,
memorized her hair
and face and nose.
I realize
she is no longer me.

I turn away
to step into the gold
light of my future.

I am free.

Three Years into the Stroke

I stand in an open field.
Golden grasses ripple around me.
I’m waiting for something.

I see it coming
from a long way off.
It’s small at first.
Just a black speck bouncing
in vast blue distance.

When it gets closer
I see it’s
my life.

It gallops
toward me
black mane flapping—
dust plumes
where its hooves
thunder the ground—

it gets closer
and closer
racing toward me,
muscles roiling
under its shiny
ebony hide—

I have one
chance
to get back on—

when my life
is right by my side
I’m ready—
I brace myself
and grasp
her glossy mane,
swing
onto her muscular back,
hug her musky
body between my thighs—

I am blinded
by wind
and tears—

The Present

After the knock
I swing open the front door
and there, on the black mat
is a present wrapped
in red glossy paper,
a white ribbed ribbon curlicued,
a white satin bow right in the center.

I shake it around—
it feels so light.
I bang it on the table.
A tired hush of air inside.
Maybe it is empty.
Maybe someone played
a cruel joke,
thinking it would
be funny—no hilarious!—
to see the disappointment
on my face.

Vicious, I tear the paper.
It heaps beside my feet.

I open it
and expect to see nothing
but the blank white bottom
of an ordinary box
but it is filled with this day—
this day right now—
on the patio
pansies’ purple and yellow faces
with pouty lips
in bronze pots,
the starling that alights
on the tip-top
of the neighbor’s peaked roof—
black silhouette—
it’s still there
and still—
and the peach clouds
low-down in the north—
bright silver with soft gray
scalloping their tops—
the air is soft and warm—
there is no wind—
and just now an oriole
flashes by yellow and black
rippling and cracking
through this day
this day
this
this
this

Sharan Ballam was the Poet Laureate for Logan City, Utah from 2019-2025. She is the author of The Red Riding Hood Papers and two full-length poetry collections Pretty Marrow and Inside the Animal: The Collected Red Riding Hood Poems. Shanan survived a massive stroke in January 2022 at age 46 that paralyzed the entire right side of her body. It also robbed her of her language. Through a lot of difficult work, she has regained the ability to speak. She also has regained the use of her right hand and arm, but she is still struggling to walk. She never quit writing poetry, though, and she has written a new chapbook about her experience, first poems after the stroke. To order her books, visit her website at http://shananballam.org..