as it turns out
the year I became
an old woman
was the same year
the snows never came
the same year
your heartless mirror
turned my skin truth-brittle
the same year
black birds refused to fly
and i remembered
(at long last)
how to cry
heart and hands
bent and broken
scrabble-holding
weightless forest
neither you
nor i
but the (w)hole
damn mess
the same year
water taught me
how to whisper
the same year
i spat bitterness
back to center
washed myself clean
the same year
as those that marched
in pattern-dashes
of before
you always leaving
me always loving
someone
never there
and only trees
know the last
ancient riddle
bearing witness to the scars
of hollow hearts
still standing
(always standing)
shedding leaves
like tears
at the threat
of yet another
dark-buried
bold-cold
winter
. . .
.
.
listen to my reading of as it turns out below:
