You Were Young

by Phoebe Anthus

In a story they read you,
long ago
The greenly grass grew
like your grandpa’s hair,
The daffodils were made of yes
and children laughed the sky to blue,
shot sunlight sparks
that crowned in glory all their coming days.

But, dark was the star which charted out the place
that you called home
before you knew that hate
was love turned inside out.

The Raven noticed and has been here,
rapping at your old oak door.
all these years.
You’ve told the skeleton in your closet
“Nobody is out there.”
One time you even looked.
It was true.
Nobody was there.
Now you ignore
the gentle tapping at your door
gulping down great drafts of night,
stars and all, in the effort not to hear.

How much sky do you suppose is left
after what has already been digested?

You were young and in your youngness
turned from all withered light,
But now, if you would unpaper even a window,
think of what could slip inside.
You are old now and the world has slowly turned inside out.

You are old and if you tried,
could tug the cold night
up out of your throat
so you could breath again.

Phoebe Anthus is a stubborn artist with her head not so far into the clouds that she cannot notice the solid, sensible things as well.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy