30 of 80

It catches my eye in the rear view mirror, one hair,

silvery

At the next red light, I extract it like a noxious weed from a lawn

because I see myself another way,

carelessly walking on a wall, long legs, sparkly miniskirt

"Would you like to see my roses?" he said, looking up,

feathered brown hair slopping into his eyes

I would and I did

Now, pieces of a marriage, scattered, a carpet of fallen leaves that I scuff through

Sometimes I wake up in the dead of night, forgetful, smiling, but there's only a cat, slumped on my hip, sighing its soft snores

"Your skin is nice," the bartender said,

"for someone your age."

Worse will come:

not one silver thread

but hundreds, spooling out of my head

lines like rivers on a map delicately branching in every direction

I'll be wise but unable to walk on walls due to brittle bones

so I'll watch my daughter walk them

Learn more about this author, Andrea Kreidler.
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