February 25, 2014

even the stars have anemia

and the sun, come winter, waves feebly from a dim noon sky. Even a mountain
sags under the weight of its long haul through history, and a trail
through the woods blanches from foot traffic. Lizzie was putting on a brave face,
despite the cough that kept her up at night, coffee barely
denting her exhaustion. My friend the musician works so hard
her vocal cords strain against the skin of her throat when she whispers. I see them, taut
but tender, like young soldiers forced into an early war. I don't know what keeps us
burning through our own reserves, insisting on performance long after
the curtain crumples to the stage. Even the stars have anemia, fading when
we look too close. Even rain evaporates. Even the moon turns its back.