By Joelle Prokupek

I can no longer go
to my childhood home.
The old caddy in the backyard,
the tree with the great arms,
the top stair where I’d wait,
the grassy hill where I ate,
wild strawberries and clover petals
are transition metals,
figments and dust in my mind,
uncertain of what kind.
Now somebody else lives there
recording over the air
deleting the delicate celophane
of memories I made.
The crumbling, fractured walls
a mocking refuge of endless halls
drained with age
the cast shadow fades
into the future, a frightening seed,
making this breath all that I need.

6 thoughts on “Breath

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