The Year of Weeping Dangerously
It made it hard to see
where she was going,
harder to see
where she’d been.
When she walked, she seemed
to squeegie,
shoe leather sodden,
even rubber soles
losing their grip.
Old friends stayed out of her way,
only animals
never strayed,
liking, she assumed,
the salt.
These things tend to come in waves,
maybe because we’re part sea
and Time part sand (the other part tide).
But caught in that divide,
she cried,
sometimes beside
herself, sometimes,
like a small animal,
beside herself.
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16th draft poem for April National Poetry Month. This one for Kerry O’ Connor’s wonderful prompt “in other words” on Real Toads about using bits of a title–in this case, The Year of Living Dangerously.
This has been super hectic/dismal work week so very sorry to be late returning comments. Also pic not really right–but there it is. (Mine, all rights reserved.)
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