I had not noticed these inner veils,
perhaps because for so long
I have worn them like skin
and in their silken familiarity
I’d mistaken them for home.
But last night, with the moon
and sky and pond as witness,
light began to leak in. By dawn,
the tear in the fabric was clear,
and I could no longer linger
in this thin cocoon where for forty
years I have kept secret my anger,
my fear, my hurt. Come morning,
the rain with its sweet perfume
and insistent hands rubbed off
most of the remnant threads.
And by noon, a relentless wind
shredded whatever of the veils was left.
I am naked again, only more
so, even more exposed
than when we stood in the cold,
dark night and held our hands
to each other’s hearts and offered
each other everything.
It’s unsettling, love, not to know
what words might leap from my heart
to my lips to your ears. I’m afraid
of the messes I might make. But
here I am, old me, trembling
on the edge of what is new.
The perch so high. My wings still wet.