Late

Had I met you when I was a girl, all bony laughter and ragged sighs,
I would have fallen under your shadow, knelt in the grass, been your weed, your bride.
And had I met you when I was another man's wife—still young, hair full of flame—
I'd have taken the spell for a sign. I'd have been jewel to your thief, little sin, and never
forgiven myself for that kiss. Or had I met you in the early wind of my solitude, I might
have snapped. Cracked like that naked branch I swung from all those aching, brilliant nights.
Instead, you came late, you came after I'd made myself into harbor and chalice and wick.
More like the ashes than any warm hearth. More like a widow than wanton, beloved.
And you lifted me over the wall of the garden and carried me back to my life.


by Cecilia Woloch