Older by Julie Platt
No night mud on my feet.
I’m no longer greedy for my
fair share of summer, autumn,
any arrangement of rain. I’m cold
all the time.
Names fall away as expected,
but sometimes even the faces go.
I watch films in the evening,
never looking out of the window.
Now, I petition uncomplicated gods,
haltingly. Turning off the record player,
still afraid of the dark. Someone’s head
is always about to be found.