Katsek

A natural cadence about it —
sometimes, the exact width of my patience.
I pencil you in indefinitely.
Let’s not make a racket.
It is always autumn in my heart
no matter what set of eyes meet mine.
We are different kinds of broken – none of us whole
(strength in numbers)
Someday I may tell you
that you are all of my Novembers
and that every November ends up breaking me
shaking down my soul
and eating me alive.
I hold myself together
writing free-verse poems
that don’t even feel free.

M.

Katsek: wicked, cunning, malicious | Inuttitut.

 

 

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