Carole Glasser Langille
When I was Twenty
The hours were telling me
something is wrong. I began to do
what I didn’t want.
Nights multiplied and wind
blew through them, oranges,
blues. Diminuendo. My life
was a terrace, cantilevered.
It looked like nothing–
nothing– was holding it up.
Worry burned in me like coal
in the belly of a stove. If there was a plan,
on those evenings when night
prolapsed and no doctor around, no one
told me. There was coal
and there was diamond. The more pressure,
the more solid nothing became. Nothing
hovered beneath
and me trying, trying
to step down to it.
Page(s) 195
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