Poem, February 12th

The Eggshell Walker

She says it's not unlike
walking in snow
jeweled with a thin layer
of ice like fragile Murano glass
the sound of it, breaking,
amd the impossibility
of avoidance

She knows to anticipate the shells
waking and turning to him
waiting for a sign,
and sometimes, he is gone already
into the deepset part, the night

pacing the halls below
or holed up in
the space of his office
staring at a computer screen

for her, it is a game of chance
entering the room
choosing whether to open her mouth
or not

she says she has
gotten good at it
hardly scrapes her feet anymore
on the sharp edged words

When she was just a rebellious teen-age
girl, hitch-hiking with out
considering the danger of it,
she spent a summer barefoot

tougheing her thin, boney feet
on whatever lay atop
the hot pavement,
the sticks and stones

and jagged pieces of colored
glass in parkin g lots

uncanny, nver knwoing, the timing of the lesson and what would follow.

karensaint