To ouf, ouf, ouf : a poem

Ouf this sack of bones I am

Ouf to putting on my socks

Ouf to the laundry hamper

Ouf, are the leftovers really that far out of reach in the back of the fridge?

Ouf, don’t we have a lighter pan than this cast iron mammoth?

Ouf goes my back

Ouf when I bend

Ouf, am I only 35 years old and can some people really live until 100?

Ouf goes the past and ouf comes the future

Ouf has replaced my “holla” and my “yolo”

Ouf is the secret word of intimacy that I utter to my yoga mat as I attempt to stretch it all out once a week

Ouf is the look in our eyes as we exchange mutual glances of oufness in between moments of ouf

Ouf is to getting old and remembering being young

Ouf is to no longer being flexible, and fun, and funky

Ouf is to new parenthood and sleeping in different beds for almost 2 years

Ouf is to picking up my 22 month old daughter with special needs who can’t hang on or hold up her head

Ouf is to resisting the power of extreme arching due to my daughter’s dystonia

Ouf is to getting in and out of the bath

Ouf is to getting in and out of the car and falling out of the truck

Ouf is to an endless winter in Northern Canada where it’s -29 C in April

Ouf is to gravity whose weight we have to factor in to everything we do, would it not be easier just to float? Please?

Ouf is the human condition of getting old in the same body we’re born in

Ouf is a prayer that we may find relief, in the next breath

The end.

Ouf, ouf, ouf, ouf, ouf.

First: a link to a definition of ouf: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ouf