Perched between the arms

of an overstuffed chair,

she sat staring blank-faced

into space that was neither

here nor there, yearning neither

for what was nor what might be

but for a sharp pencil and

a clean sheet of paper.

She would make one column

of the things she meant to be

beside a second with the things

she had became, to include

the mixed degrees of success

in raising children and keeping

one husband (somewhat) happy.

Column three would hold a list

of pieces that had sheared off

since her birth like the twisted

bit of umbilical cord a baby retains

then sheds; a small desire,

a budded hope,

the unspoken possibility

of being other than who she was,

written before they faded entirely

from her view, one by one.

 

©Dana Hughes 11.20.2017