Often, like visiting the quietest chamber of some empty church,

I turn out my pockets on a long winding walk

And pretend I am seven again

Calling myself a witch in the forest

Laughing at how silly that is

And startling friends because

My body and soul are so close

You remember the days when

Your forehead sweat and dirty palms were all you knew

Crumpled dollars in an abandoned car lot

And the carcass of a wildcat in a cornfield

Its feral eyes fixed on a grimy patch of earth

Colors were like celebrities

They sang to you their warmth

And you cradled an entire sun inside your little chest

--Now packaged goods in a basement

Though your feet were never calloused quite

Enough, you say,

And sigh.