Playing Village
Barefoot behind our house, out of adult earshot.
Packed earth paths, village sidewalks.
I decreed from atop the cement block the size of a refrigerator.
She was my only actual sister.
She thought of the moss first and refused to be owned.
Crouched on her moss, she turned her six year old back
Towards my ten year old voice.
Too busy for village meeting; just built a sink.
Stone, water, movement. Jealousy.
Age 33, in any woods I seek out the moss.
Humid under my fingertips.
posted by Sarah Wilson Belzile @ 6:16 AM
1 Comments:
Part of me wants to go back to see the village. Part of me doesn't. I know the door to my house won't be there, the worn away dirt path will be overgrown, the concrete refrigerator won't still have the bottle and stick sitting on top of it. Would it "ruin" the memory to go back and see what it looks like now?
Post a Comment
<< Home