by Ann Marie Potter
I’ve seen it, shy, loose wrapped in pity,
the fear in your eyes.
Knowing that what’s caught
me in its yellowing teeth,
snarling, tearing, scarring, killing
lies in wait for you
farther down the path.
To you, I seem to exist in slow motion.
But you should know that getting old,
is, in so many ways, a quickening,
a growing need to suck marrow
from jagged bone ends, a swelling,
driving, hoping desire to hear Jingle Bells
one more time on the CVS loudspeaker,
to see one more baby turtle
move through an acre of water
with four tiny feet.
Ann Marie Potter has officially retired from academic life and currently lives in Wyoming, spoiling the family cats, dressing in sloppy clothes, and watching the mule deer eat the flowers in my front yard. Her poetry has been published in The Storyteller, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Velvet Antler. She’s not sure that “enjoy” is the proper verb for her poems, but she hopes they resonate with someone.
Little Leaf Literary Journal 