Today I typed out a long list of numbers
nothing important, but the numbers aligned
into years
Years of tiny details forgotten or remembered,
who could say what would make the books
In front of me, the crickets snap up from the grass,
their tiny shadows bending and fading
Suddenly I am hands-on-my-knees
heaving, the weight of all those years, all those
little details
I scream, my throat catching and rasping,
it burns, but it does not help
The dogs only look at me with vague concern,
the crickets continue leaping
Why is your impatient voice the one that rings in my ears?
Why is my long list of years a paper-chain of grief?
I straighten, I keep running, the dogs ahead out of sight
Snap snap snap
You will leave, what else can I do?