I, the

Eyewitness 

to Things 

That 

Never

Happened

I don’t recall

things exactly

as they

happened

because I

tend to

remember

with my heart.

The only thing

I can be sure

of is how 

I felt

at every

turn.

This is 

particularly

true in

dreams 

where

everything

that occurs

happens

unbidden

and only

seen

through

closed eyes.

That said,

when awake

I look solely

through the

youthful eyes

of someone

afraid 

one day

they may

go blind. 

In my days

I’ve taken to

collecting

things 

to keep 

them 

from hunting 

me down.

I turn off 

the box 

that narrates

the world

in only

cold facts, 

sure that

a memory

of beauty

can still

warm me. 

Even as

the trees

of my 

childhood

grow

further way,

I am

the fort

that still

holds both

our hearts

up to the sky. 

The world 

presses 

its face 

at our windows,

azure sky

scratched

by a

solo plane;

if only 

scars

were so

impermanent.

I tell myself

I will not

grow old 

rather only

grow up;

a flower

breaking

through rock

with the 

force of a

bomb blast;

I am

all boom

and bloom.

I know

one doesn’t

necessarily

grow old, 

but can

stop

growing.

Tonight I am

the one-legged 

man

keeping 

his poems 

in a shoebox

beneath the bed.

I part 

my hair 

to the side,

signalling to

the departed

that I feel

their quiet

longing.

I am

the mute 

playing

silent piano

in the corner

of the 

speak easy.

I am

the woman 

in Illinois 

grazed by 

a falling star

whose 

fading bruise 

is erasing her

proof of

celestial

contact.

Apart from

my body,

I could be 

a horse 

or a cat

ambling 

nimbly over

a path of roots

in a forest.

I pause to

drink from

a spring,

only to wake

with a 

pebble

in the pocket

of a mouth

ready to 

open again.

2/21/22