Andes from South America by The Anatomy of Frank

when I was eight or nine
I would wake at night to see an old woman in my backyard through the blinds
shaking in my bed, my eyes out the window
never saw her face, just a hat and a red coat

on that night, with the moon
you could see the woods around the yard, the door into my parents’ room
I knew if I screamed, she’d turn around and spot me
so I cried alone, allowing her to haunt me

I was scared and I’m still scared of what I can’t undo
we put ourselves through hell and come out battered and bruised
and put the touches on our makeup, wake up anew

as my fourth decade comes around
how quickly we are broken, beaten, choked, bury our heads in the ground
shaking on a plane, the mountains all around me
wondering if my need to run will ever ground me
I know you had a lot to say that you couldn’t
you could let it shape your fears, but you shouldn’t

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