13

 

I was never thirteen. There was a year
the cosmos folded; now I'm older I can see
that the warp of tongue and tree
made a knot of normalcy
and unravelled. I have lived
the years that matter, but the
scattered light and logic
took a foot and then another
from the soil and stage to smother
days that shattered into months
meant for someone else: the scene
was cut. I breathed and bowed,
but I was never thirteen.