Tense Slippage

I was a mother.
I was a wife.
I was—

—I was

The door clicks shut—
and I’m breathless air,
a question unasked, unformed.

The street rings under
unmoored heels; cobbles
like clenched teeth, grinding

the soft from me.
A map worn thin from refolding—
creased, unread, without origin.

I cradle my hollow
like it’s leaking—
not fragile, just uncontained.

The names I answered to
—drip⸺drip⸻drip
from fingertips like rainwater.

Past tense clings
to the back of my teeth—
future tense, stuck still.

I don’t yet know
what border will embrace me,
what soil will bear my weight.

For now, I’m motion,
not lost, not found looked for—

    just…

      …mercilessly…

                  …free…