In response to the word ‘attrition,’ Call No. 2.
Like wiggling your first baby tooth,
the gnawing good-pain, like love,
the final bloody pop of childhood.
Or, no. Like grinding rocks in an old, smoky
machine to gravel, then shoveling
it onto a rusty conveyor belt. The smell of gas.
The soles of your favorite shoes, worn smooth
from so many steps and miles, tossed into a pile
under a glass bridge in a museum.
Tuesday afternoon, alone with the priest,
saying your acts of, taking a disc of flesh
on your penitent tongue.
The graying of your hair, strand by strand.
The moment you knew you would die.
Kristin Maffei blogs at Not Intent on Arriving. In addition to writing poetry and working on C&R, she loves knitting and large bodies of water.