Carole Glasser
YOU WERE HER
The child you were is calling.
At night she wakes you; the world is gone.
You tell her she is smart. A rabbit
with a strong heart.
And alive. She breathes:
See. White smoke in the air.
Her eyes sting. She's caught
bare-faced, in the wind's grip.
Winter took her thoughts
and mixed them with the snow.
When the fire's out the coals glow. It's an old house
that rattles.
If
she leaves,
lights off, she takes the key.
One day she'll whisper, "Don't come near me."
Only you could have warned her and you were her.
Run with yourself, cowgirl
Disguised as a kid in a school yard.
Shadows did not trip you then
but later. You who knew how to balance.
Your room, in its way
is continuing: dark and private.
The past insists on decorum.
Only in your wildest thoughts
have you passed and seen the lights still on.
It's a net of light that pulls you back.
You are standing by the child you were.
This happens. You put your hands on her waist thinking,
"I cannot leave you
alone in this dark place."
