Breath

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.