Margins

     Anna Newman

 

There’s a mode of life

where you set things down

 

so hard

they immediately 

 

shatter. The leaves

move un-

 

orderly now as fall

yanks out summer 

 

from underneath,

time slipping

 

against itself.

This year I peeled

 

again myself

into choices 

 

that I don’t 

remember choosing:

 

a syringe in 

the weed tree,

 

a key counted

back to its separate

 

teeth, a mode 

of life where things

 

come back new

if you wish it 

 

hard enough.

In summer you were

 

nearly gone already.

I traced the thin line 

 

of impending grief 

up and down

 

my margins. I’ll

keep giving and 

 

giving until 

I’m past remolding 

 

my own shape,

feeling full up and

 

small enough to tuck

and fold into

 

a crease in

the narrative.

 

The sun is thin 

like broth tonight,

 

trying to illuminate

what tries just as hard

 

to stay unlit.