Watching Ella Trips in Her Seventies

You can believe when Ella trips,
moving on stage, she'll never get up,
this old woman with her broken hip,
her arm crooked like the handle of a cup.

Moving on stage, she'll never get up
to the top of her range again. Again,
her arm crooked like the handle of a cup,
she arcs her neck, eyes closed, no strain

to the top of her range again, again,
beyond, within this body she has left.
She arcs her neck, eyes closed, no strain
and here's the songbook she's kept

beyond, within this body she has left.
She mimics Bird, and you think of his death,
and here's the songbook she's kept,
phrases like bursts of her own breath.

She mimics Bird, and you think of his death,
This old woman and her broken, hip
phrases like bursts of her own breath.
You can believe, when Ella trips.

David Wright, originally published in The Mid-America Poetry Review. 5.2. 151