Four Months From Now by Rebecca Schumejda

Afraid to push into me, you
go downstairs to read the paper.
In the kitchen’s dull light,
the shadows on the walls
become a city of uninvited guests.
We’ll have to get used to
not being alone anymore.
When you read, the scars
above each of your eyes
crease.  The thin line between
then and now, the shadows
of who you were, push in
and out like the tide
and heavy thoughts, unafraid.
Don’t tell me not to worry:
I’ve witnessed the ocean steal
a child from his mother;
the stretch marks left on
abandoned shores, your eyes
in the shadow of thought,
so distant and unrecognizable
like the child you’re afraid you’ll hurt.




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[first read in The Somerville News; available for free online and used with permission of the author via Propaganda Press]