She does not speak to me about such things

the color of the carpet when the sun sets,
who determines seasons of little and plenty,
why she stays with him.
After so many years, the skin dries, the waist thickens,
the answers full in my thin pockets,
rub together like paper and past.
We keep the things we treasure,
discard what no longer brings us joy,
the metal and colored stones in the jewelry box,
the difference between people and objects.

I suppose I know what answers I seek,
but question the slowness of time,
the crawl of varicose veins, bare feet steady and worn,
the same white scales that stamp the bottoms of the feet
of her mother and her mother before her.
I massage my heels with oils,
sit and let it soak in before I stand.
She stays because she says the altar calls her name,
warns her of broken promises.
I wonder what the altar says about broken, about people,
about the wear and tear on joints and limbs and heart.

 

 

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Categories: Poetry, Writing

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