Member-only story
To the Old Woman Who Knows
a free verse poem for Crucible: the stone womb of elderhood
Look at that girl dig in the rock pile under the red mailbox
in her front yard, searching for fossil rocks inked with black
fern. Look at her — hawk-like, wonder-struck, and urgent try
to figure out what it means to be here, imprinted with time. She
scrutinizes the mystery because everything feels underscored
with something important. Her mother tells her she won’t live
past Christmas. She goes to her room, climbs to the top bunk,
floats in outer space, imagines black holes and is surprised
at how good it feels to be pulled in by the gravity of it all. The pull
becomes a need to know — to know what she does not know — the lost
thing that will tell her how she too might be able to unfurl fronds
complex enough to soak up the light, recreate herself, and keep her
dying mother alive. Admire how she gathers and piles those rocks
on her dresser and waits for their language to become her own. Look
