I was reminded sharply
of danger, of throbbing, of sudden
death. Here, a lavender bruise.
Here, a tender egg at my forehead.
At sixteen, I ran smack into a concrete wall, chased
down the hall by my brother. Just kids then.
I have worn the years of depression
from that skull dent with bravura.
Today, nausea and vertigo. A concussion?
Today I have curtly become an old lady.
One who slips in the shower.

Risa Denenberg lives on the Olympic peninsula in Washington State where she works as a nurse practitioner. She is a co-founder and editor at Headmistress Press, publisher of lesbian/bi/trans poetry, and curator of The Poetry Café, an online meeting place where poetry chapbooks are celebrated and reviewed. She has published three full-length collections of poetry, most recently slight faith (MoonPath Press, 2018). risadenenberg.com