Ibbetson Street Press Young Poet Series editor Emily Pineau writes of a transition – a transition that is painful but will lead to new doors opening.
No Longer My Face
Buried under this snow
is the day I will be leaving.
I won’t push open
that heavy door
that those broken steps
lead up to
anymore.
I won’t walk
up that ramp,
leading to his office—
walls covered in paintings
like in a living room,
and a cleared off desk.
Typewriter next to him.
I sit in the same chair
every time.
The benches that I found
refuge in will no longer
be my benches,
but they will remember
my warmth,
and the sound of my typing—
those essays and stories
they hear for hours
in a form of Morse Code.
I wonder how long
it will take for my name
to just be a name
and no longer my face
or voice.
My poems might take on
new meanings.
Or I might take on
a new meaning.
I keep shoveling,
not wanting to stop.
My body aches
deeper than physical labor.
I keep checking
my watch.
My neighbor snow blows
the bottom of my driveway.
I am grateful,
but numb.
The mounds of snow remind me
how time packs me in.
Inside, my toes and nose burn.
Soaked clothes are in heaps
in the designated spot
by the closet.
Ice socks are replaced by slippers.
My unzipped jacket is replaced with
my unzipped backpack.
Folders tucked in, papers written.
Car cleared off—
Crawl into bed.
Missing what I haven’t
lost yet.
— Emily Pineau
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