Unseen
by CJ Rakay

She’s heard it said
that breaths are numbered,
like tall trees in a forest
or rungs on a ladder–
that you can count them,
like heartbeats,
or hard-lived years.

Far too young she is
to be so hunched over
the chopping board,
counting another day
hours before the sun,
long unsure if she is
one of us, or one of them–
like it mattered anymore.

And now,
quietly content, resigned really,
she lives among the unseen,
among the fallen flowers,
where she learned long ago
to find comfort in what little she has,
and catch joy wherever she can–
like she did this morning,
in that well-sliced pear.



 

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