When I Was Soft As Ferns
by Colette Inez
When I was soft as ferns around the roses,
I sang processionals at morning service
and rode my gladness high on backyard swings.
Hummed alto to every hymn the choir knew,
but in the fields and weeds I grew
with sticks and stones and hurting things.
And now when morning comes and night is over,
I, having fought the terrors from all corners
of hours soaked in brimming darkness,
arise and limply hang my questions
on rusted hooks that streak the naked wood,
and then a tired knowing strokes me
with answers in my secret blood.