I could tell you why I walk like this

By Diem Okoye

Issue 51 • Spring 2025 • Poetry

This poem won second place in the Spring Contest, judged by Sara Daniele Rivera, who wrote: “The delicacy of this poem, the subtlety of its steps and the intimacy of its tone, astounded me. I felt immediately displaced by the opening, the way the foot misjudged the ground, then felt, radiating throughout the poem, every collapse of the self. Internal fractures were made more impactful by the way they flowed within the even-paced, careful structure of the poem’s couplets. I loved the moment the poem landed in: how the speaker had to face the option of either tunneling further into themselves or opening up to someone else, allowing the possibility of contact.”

I could tell you why I walk like this,
that I misjudged the ground, thought the ground

was closer than it was. That I twisted—no,
shattered—something inside my body, but

not enough for anyone to see. I could insist
I am careful, that I listen when they tell me

how to step, where to turn, when to rest.
But the world does not care for the careful.

I tripped. I felt it go wrong, and still,
I kept moving forward. Although I love

company, what I love more is retreat—
let the lights dim, let the voices

fade, let me find my way back
to a space that does not ask
so much of me.

I am fine, I said, as your eyes flickered
from my bent wrist to my slow gait,

then back to the place where I fell.
What is this world but things breaking,
and I, another fractured thing? Then you said,

Take your time, and I watched your hands
hover, unsure if I wanted help. I didn’t know

the language of being lifted, until I leaned
just enough for you to steady me.

Diem Okoye

Diem Okoye is a writer and teacher. She lives with two German Shepherds and two neurotic cats. She moonlights as a copy editor and loves spending time with her family and friends.