It's hard, to live inside 
a silence. Or sometimes it's easy, 
as if it might be the only way 
one could continue in the world.

I'm not the first nor the last 
to suddenly feel unsure of what I've 
become, since the arrival of children— 
What's shriven from the stalk 

leaves a weal: pale scar that does
green over again in time, little stitch 
a finger traces as though it knew
everything or nothing of its source.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.