Every time I least expect it
there is a blur of movement
by the bushes, or behind an assembly
of potted plants, or disappearing into
the space beneath the coffee table.
Something small and much faster
than me. In the air I catch a whiff
of fear that maybe something
isn’t quite right, and I wonder whose –
its or mine. It doesn’t matter
If it’s daytime (someone riding
a shiny red bike in circles,
an old lady in a wheelchair just
watching the world go by) or if
the streets have drifted off
to sleep and a peal of laughter
pierces the night – the shadows always
land where they do. This year I learned
about all the mistakes I can make
without meaning to. How forcing yourself
to forgive yourself feels like wringing
rainwater from a rag when the ceiling
still hasn’t stopped dripping. Light leaks
even when we hide from it. Sometimes
I think it’s fear but it passes. I am smaller
and faster than I believe. The shadows
always land where they do, so I let them
rest wherever I am. Let them touch my skin
and brush the ends of my hair. Let them
remind me, in case I’ve forgotten,
that they’re only ever cast
with a light source nearby.
🌒
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