My Paces I take my self for walks, in the absence of a dog. No brown, white, black or piebald attendant at my wrist lunging in fan shapes like an untrained hose. I walk by the rules: one foot in front of the other, no dawdling, mind the potholes. In the playground’s din my hindbrain stirs, remembering rote sways— arms extended at the swings pumping children into pendulums. My steps become the drone of a metronome—a stroller thudding over sidewalk ruts. I move through the crosswalk, leading with my womb like there’s still something in it.