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Twenty-Three
September 13, 2012
I felt twenty-three when my skeleton
crept out from inside me,
but I had barely lived.
I am an infant, cradled by
a larger force that I am not yet
familiar with – the milk
is never sour, never sweet.
Furthermore, I am an elder
whose dialect’s foreign,
improper for her environment,
but beautiful in mind.
Puppet strings linking days
are often cut, and I find thread
to be much too fine for glue:
so, always, I feel twenty-three –
just in between everything.
© Carollynn G., Hawthorne, NY
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