She’s taking the first steps
out from under the wingtips of her mother. Leaving.
She’s shaking, stepping deliberately in
every puddle she can find, her sneakers and bones
soaking in the frost as it thaws.
She’s sinking, wishing the blurred reflections of
naive children’s dreams in the sky could be more than that.
She only wants to wash away what memories she has of the past,
because she’s more afraid than you can imagine, wishing
on every burnt out match she can find, stealing
glances at the clock, shivering alone in the newfound cold
like a child left on a doorstep, crudely wrapped in term papers
and school reports instead of warmth.
It’s not about the future, not about the blue and the red and
the inevitable black that comes afterwards.
It’s not about the past and the yellowing photographs of
happiness and safety that are stapled
securely into thick photo albums collecting dust
on the shelves of a childhood home.
It’s about this moment, her toes catching fire as they touch
the wild infernos for the first time, caught like a fly in amber,
eyes wide open, tears threatening to bleed out
and obscure the carefully written words on her cheeks and lips.
She’s leaving and there is nothing more terrifying
than standing alone beneath the open skies,
not a cloud to shield her from the cold, hard stare of the universe.
I try to hold her hand, but she’s already gone, faded away in the
moments between the flickering out of night lights in her
childhood bedroom and the sputtering beginning of
the slow, persistent hum of a dorm room air conditioner.
Sitting alone on a foreign mattress,
she takes out a photograph and
sets it on the bedside table, brushing away
the marks of time from the frame.
Her heart falters along with the air conditioner
as she lies awake, praying to smudge away
the letters carved into her skin
and retreat back into the dimly lit haven of a mother’s arms.
