I Don’t See You Much These Days

by Alizabeth Worley

is the first thing someone says to me,

when finally, I dress, put on shoes and compression stockings,

gather my phone, keys and wallet to drive to some event

or another, after what has been most likely years

since last we spoke.

How do I explain? When I go home,

I will barely be able to leave my bed even to grab

juice or a bowl of cold veggie roast from the fridge

for days, and that is if our meeting is short,

an hour or less. This week, I will not take my kids

on a playdate or walk around the backyard. Before

coming, I made sure I had no doctor’s appointments—

for me or my kids—the two weeks before and after.

How do I explain? When I say,

“I can’t stay for long,” I am speaking your language,

not mine: my throat is already drumming

it’s painful beat, right between my trachea

and the ligaments that cradle it.

My legs quaver and cramp as I stand

by the front door, waiting for it to open.

How do I explain? Thank you, I want to say,

for saying, I think, that you might like

to see me again.

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Alizabeth Worley has hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and Ménière's disease, and her husband, Michael, has cerebral palsy. They live in Utah with their two children. Her essays, poetry, and illustrated works have appeared in MQR Online, CRAFT, Guernica, Tar River Poetry, Sweet, and elsewhere.