A Poem: Learning to Walk

By Marie Myman

He had never noticed the
freckles on the bridge of
Hannah’s nose until then.
Tall tales of forgotten poets who
sung lullabies of hallowed pasts.

Words seep through the
paper thin skin and
nothing can be done to
protect her.
She fell into dream and
he had to leave
quickly turning on his heel
so that his back faced her.

He — couldn’t — move
his feet were stuck in place
clasping his arm across his
frail and cluttered chest, eyes
closed tightly he could
still — see — her
still — feel — her
still want to — tell — her
of a place where
accidents never happened and
people never die. Living
everyday as if the
next generation couldn’t.
We are the ants of society
eating away at the underbelly
of prospective futures.

He can learn to walk
leaving behind a story
and a house where she slept at night,
the universe in which she lived
collapsing before his eyes.

He found that she looked
more beautiful when she cried.
Her swollen eyes glistened
and he had a purpose
he had a reason to
look at her redden face and
see what he needed to see.
She was his then
not lost in a pretense
not lost
in a house.