Ode to Transition

by Alison Kaiser

My feet are always the first to know,

dragging as I swim up from the warm
   darkness of sleep and
carry my unsuspecting
   body across hard
wood to put the kettle on.

The leaves have flown from the sugar
   maples, exposing the once
flowing river- now succumbed to
   nature’s tyrannical regime.

I squint to make it out against
   the plum purple sky, pull a glass
from the cabinet and turn
   on the tap, slip vitamin D3 and magnesium
glycinate under my tongue.

Whoever said you do not need
   romantic love to be happy
has never tried to survive
   a New England winter
without it. If for nothing else
   but shared body heat. Someone
to stir the pot on the stove, another
   set of hands for chopping
carrots, stripping jackets off
   garlic cloves and rolling out dough.

I lower the needle as the heat kicks on
   Crosby, Stills and Nash on a warped 45
I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are.
   I scoop up a kitten in mid-stretch and my
lead-heavy hips start to sway
   as we dance.

The house yawns to life, oak
   stairs creak under the weight
of two people I love. Tonight
   we will carve pumpkins together,
and maybe the sun peeks in
   through the window an hour too late
to tell me: all things
   worth having are worth waiting for.

My feet are always the first to know
when it’s getting bad again.

Alison Kaiser is a full-time student and part-time latte slinger living in Holderness, New Hampshire. She studies environmental science & policy, writes the occasional music review for The Clock, and is co-editor of Centripetal literary magazine.

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