Poem of the Week | September 14, 2026

Christine Marshall’s poems and essays have appeared in Best American Poetry, Agni, The Missouri Review, Poetry Daily, The Sun, and other places. She has published two books of poetry: Match (Unicorn Press, 2018)  and Night Halves (Gunpowder Press, 2026). She lives and teaches in Charlotte, North Carolina. 

“Ataxia” by Christine Marshall was a 2026 Perkoff Prize finalist and is our Poem of the Week.

Title image: The Mule, Marie-Jeanne (1872) by Félix Hilaire Buhot

***

Ataxia

is a disease nobody knows, so I compare your illness  
to ALS or Parkinson’s, more familiar.  

Familiar, rooted in “family.” Family,  
basket of water hanging from a mule’s neck.  

In the myth of family, there is no resentment.  
It never roots in your pelvis, climbs your spine

or wakes you through the night, flames 
spitting from your dreams.  

My instinct, now that I’ve made that metaphor  
of a burdened work animal, is to disclaim.  
Apologies. No heavy emotions here.   

Do you know clouds can weigh one million pounds?  
It’s been six years since I’ve had a good night’s sleep.  

There are no martyrs in Edith Hamilton.  
There’s murder, incest, rape—outrage 

moves rather than seething, bitter stew.  
What’s happening in there, Dad?  
Are you angry?  

I’m sorry I’m such a dud, you repeat  
three times before I can understand you.  

Not Fucking hell. Not  
What did I do to deserve this? 

I wonder if your faith has expired, disease 
immobilized your love of God.  

Fucking hell. I’m so angry 
I could spit lightning, weep clouds.  

God weighs a million pounds 
and is hanging like family around my neck.  

***

Author’s Note:

Ataxia is a little-known neurological disorder that impairs coordination, balance, and speech. This poem explores the fury and heartbreak of watching my beloved father struggle with the disease, and the complex reality of family dynamics.