I saw a man who resembled
her father 15 years from now,
greyed, aged slowly
and all at once:
a gradual sunset
disappears in an instant.
She took the elevator and
he took the stairs.
The time it takes to wait
is longer than the time
it takes to arrive from where
we began.
I am 10, now 45, things age
like pillowcases, cheese, metal.
I am holding blankets
at the bottom of a long staircase,
waiting, wanting
for someone to come down.
I am 70, now 30,
the voice in my head
never seems to change
though every day
a different decibel
ticks and now I only whisper:
The rabbit cowered
in the middle of the road
I covered my eyes with its lids
shoved feelings into my throat
lodged dreams into tendons
wondered when time will start.
I saw myself in a crowd.
50 years later with a hot
red sun suspended in the sky,
cream-colored sidewalks and
a shaking, exhaling breeze.
She was a deep breath.
The color of air.
And she was known.