A heavy hand; where once
fair-feather, blood-red
and gold
the fable told:
the story of us
Tiny fists, comically small
Now white-curled
against the underbelly
with the promises
stripped from fingers
violently strumming
a two-chord wonder
conducting the dance
of dust particles
she can’t help but envy.
A scratching marker
bled with black
silence,
your eyes upon the letter
my tongue against my teeth
the hand absent
the lines underneath
blurred.
I am passenger, a reluctant navigator
perpetual forward motion
I count markers flickering by
like candles, long-extinguished
cake crumbs and sticky fingers
and under hopeful eyelids
I made a secret wish, of which
I can no longer recall
I was once so small
not so much anymore
as old bones protest; grind and crack
I turn to look back
wistful, regretful – and oftentimes forgetful
it begins to retreat from view
ahead, the next marker on approach
I count a four and I count an oh.