For Years

 

For years we have had only this to drink:

The emptiness which passes through our hands

Like water, our main proof that time is wet.

We have had this skin which tends to shrink,

These bones that melt, this stomach which demands

Light. We had these teeth we like to bet,

These eyes which train our memories to blink,

This heart which our own blood misunderstands.

All of these were ours, our own, and yet

We possessed much less than one might think.

Just this rain which falls through us and lands

In puddles, this translucent alphabet.

Stephen Lefebure

Barnwood poetry magazine