On the edge that time thins, I stood

with aching arms, in a wrinkled dress.

Among the stones a holier-than-thou,

dark-robed and flailing,

recited psalms by the shovelful.

It’s the body that feels pain,

but the brain delivers it.

To this day, sometimes driving

I see black wings flapping between

bare branches and overreact.

Someone once told me we make

everyone in our dreams into another

version of ourselves, that rage isn’t rage

but sorrow turned back on itself,

the shape made of regret.

There must have been birds,

the noon-time smell of grass.

I can’t say. Feathered arias

and earthy balms are not meant for

a woman with a fist in each pocket.