by Meredith Noseworthy
| I don’t know who he is. And the not knowing rips through me, not unlike a train hitting me. It’s not like being hit by a train: I don’t splinter or break clean like dried woodand my shoulderblades have not bloomed into wings, which means I’m not a bird. He’s been the stow-away between my scapula and cartilage. Now that he’s not there, my feet don’t know him no matter how far we walk, heels to boardwalk. I’ve never known how muscles work, the pace and pulse ~~~~~ |
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Causeway Lit 