Runaway
Heather Moll
I once ran through a field of stubble
in early autumn. My legs carried me further
and faster than ever before and when I crawled
through the barbed-wire fence, a jolt shook
my body. The blood streamed down my cold
leg all the way home. The scar rests above
my right knee. How many scars are invisible?
I buy clothing with pockets to hold apologies.
I want to be the one holding the offering plate.
I collect scars but want to hand back grace.
It’s a shit job being human. Can you hold the pain
I hand you? Can I hold the pain you hand back?
I make hot meals for my children and still
I must eat, and I eat my words daily,
choke on the pointed edges as they go down.
Helvetica is particularly difficult to swallow.
The letters slowly become me. The scar
above my right knee takes the shape
of an apology and I wonder how
many more days I can stay.
Heather C. Moll (she/her) lives on the edge of the windswept Canadian plains. She spends her days searching for her muse, (who visits, most often and inconveniently, when she is cleaning or walking her big, fluffy dog) parceling words into poems and seeing the world through her camera lens. She’s a mom to two teenagers, nature-lover, autodidact, and continual work-in-progress. She can be found on instagram @heathercmollwriter.