Twenty Four

Saturday, August 28, 2021

My twenty-fourth year on earth. 
spun together, by yarn from 
my grandmother’s calloused hands. 
Some days I am five, innocence in my breath.
Other days, I am eighteen, feeling the rush of freedom. 
As I look upon life passed, I am older than all of my years combined. 
If I looked down, would I recognize my hands? 
Worn from sanding the moon and churning the stars. 
I no longer seek gratification in this world but in nature. 
I observe the sunset as sonnets leak from its lips, a splatter of color for each year I’ve lived. 
On eve’s when the air is chilled, 
I dance in pink hues and stretch my arms above my head. 
Teenage nights where we threw care to the wolves. 
On mornings when I miss the art of cubbies and recess, I cling to blue hues, 
the same that decorated the morning horizon as I waited for the school bus. 
My hands create shadows and the black sends me to caves of forgotten boxes. 
Milkshakes, pennies, and clarinet solos. 
As dusk arrives, 
I find my husband and I settle among midnight. 
I bathe in amber sunlight 
and live for every version of myself: 
who I’ve been, who I am, and who I will be. 
My heart rests.

This poem was published in Issue 3 of Resolute Magazine.

Post a Comment

© Kelli Lage. Design by FCD.