by Carol Casey
I wonder what happened to
those socks I wore that sparkled
in the days when dancing
made most sense within
my healing love for you, a slow burn
kindled, the sureness of my heart,
which wasn’t wrong, as it rejoiced
in finding home where hearths
could burn and not burn up.
Do you know how rare
that is? Or maybe there are millions
of ordinary people walking
side by side, not even thinking
about it. But it was discovery
to me, as if we were the first,
the only made to fit together, shelter
each other in a world that fears
nature, humanity, then their loss.
We hold each other’s hands
and love dandelions,
cry for our posterity, white rhinos,
black lives, missing and murdered.
I’ll need another pair, or maybe ten,
of sparkling socks
to dance all this.
Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, Canada. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared most recently in The Prairie Journal, Synaeresis and Plum Tree Tavern (upcoming) as well as a number of anthologies, including Tending the Fire and i am what becomes of the broken branch.