What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?
“He’s twenty years old. I try to take him outside whenever I can so that he can have some new experiences before, you know…”
We will meet again on the other side of this, for what is between us is not finished by half.
I have thrown my roses, given my thanks
to the monster who could not choke me down,
but sometimes I feel like it’s still nipping at my heels.
I am constantly caught between the teeth
of something so much bigger than myself
and there is no overcoming anything.