by Deborah J Shore Bid me come, and free my feet
to lunge toward wonder, toddling.
May shackled years not once repeat.
Bid me come, and free my feet.
Render afflictions obsolete
(if not in how life’s form lacks sync).
I can’t pretend to have the beat,
but bid me come, and free my feet.
I’ll dance to stamp the phantom sting.
I’ll lunge toward wonder, toddling.
Deborah J. Shore has spent the better part of her life housebound or bedridden with sudden onset severe ME/CFS. Her recent publications include The London Magazine, Pensive, Nashville Review, THINK, Prelude, Thimble Lit, ballast, Reformed Journal, Amethyst Review, Christian Century, Windhover, and the anthology Thin Places & Sacred Spaces. She has won poetry competitions at the Anglican Theological Review and the Alsop Review.
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