It knocked
softly
a breath at the door
but I
bolted the windows
and swallowed the key.

It came wearing warmth,
but I mistook it
for fire,
for teeth,
for grief with a new face.

So I fled,
faster than joy
could reach out its hand
afraid it might feel
like home.

a rainy day
sky split open,
and i did too
quietly.
not sadness,
just the kind that stays
even after the storm.

One day
my hands will look like my mother’s—
and I wonder
if I’ll ever notice
the progression.

My daughter
will place her hand beside mine,
comparing landscapes
as though the veins and wrinkles
etched across my palms
were foreign elements,
strange and distant.

When the years
have piled high,
and I can finally say
I’ve been old
far longer than I was young,

perhaps I too
will place my hand beside
my granddaughter’s—
and study the difference
like a language
I was once fluent in.