No Pockets

I found a stone
smoother than anything
the weight of it ready to ground me
and carried it until my fist grew hot
and tight
refused to use that hand
until the stone dropped
with a sharp click on my dresser
where it stayed
alone and cold

I tried to add to my collection
to carry the small and odd and found
but that stone was a singularity
a labor of naivety that kept me one arm down

And life demanded I climb
demanded movement
reckless exploration and hand holding
tasting and pinching and eye rubbing

I tried alternatives to filling my palms
stacking and twisting finds through fingers
pinning trinkets beneath my chin
suffocating knickknacks within waistbands
snapping notes beneath my bras
burring baubles in my hair
and wedging painful treasures beneath my toes

Having no pockets
much was left behind

I never perfected the art of taking
of claiming the merely found as mine
never felt the extensive satisfaction
of keeping all my finds

Thus I've grown into the world
expecting nothing
to stay mine



Meagan Noel Hart

Meagan Noel Hart usually writes flash fiction and short stories but every now and again the world moves her enough to write poetry. She lives in Baltimore where by day she teaches college writing and mothers two rambunctious and incredibly lovable boys. By night, she chases words past midnight into all sorts of rabbit holes.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Sunday, March 10, 2019 - 22:10