Some days I am 18.
The world blazes with possibility.
A song urges me to sing it aloud in public.
I love and am loved.

Some days I am 8.
The world is full of dust
and I hold the dustcloth.
Saints are real;
I know their stories by heart.

Some days I am 35.
I am everyone's mother.
My chapped hands are proof
of my existence.

Some days I am 5.
I hold a pencil as if for the first time.
Words are everywhere.
Stories beckon.

Some days I am 44.
I am an orphan.
There is a tunnel
at the end of the light.

Some days I am 64.
The days are thick with reality.
My voice and joints crack.
The gloaming is the day's last gift.

Some days I am ageless.
The world is so beautiful it hurts.
The world is so terrible it hurts.


This poem first appeared in Voices from Here 2: The Paulinskill Poetry Project, 2017.
Used here with the author's permission.