Yew
Looking right,
towards a wider view,
away from limitations.
She remembers a time
of radios, singing telegrams, church socials.
Her mom was blonde and had blue eyelashes.
She also remembers the now.
A time of rest and varicose veins,
blue like her mother’s mascara.
She sees
an elderly man leaving a monastery.
It feels like a vision, but it isn’t.
The woman takes on a new name.
Hekate—
a goddess in the wider view,
in the wildest places.
In her mind are Belladonna, poppies, Mandrake.
The man trudges closer and shows his hands.
On his silky palm is a trident.
She examines her own hands,
finding no lines, no marks, no indents.
There’s a Yew tree in this wild place,
and the old man rests against it.
His brittle bones mourn a promising past.
His head points straight ahead,
not ready for the wider view.
He gets in the car
and drives madly away, away, away
from the wider view.
She stays.
She becomes the wider view.
He will be ready one day.