I call it
future memory,
holes in a moment seen
sideways, peripheral
confirmation of a path conceived
in childhood (or earlier) and
the hot aching pang
of reassurance that follows
tastes like air before
summer rain.

My children are ancient –
tiny goddesses
molding time like putty,
able to blink once
and watch
as the world gives
against the force of their
desire.

Our oscillation between
extremes leaves
scattershot footprints,
and backtracking through
darkness you stumble into
holes like breadcrumbs
left by an earlier self,
and give strength to
the one that
remains.