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Letter to the Future from March 29, 2015

Running down Ravenna today three ladies

with walkers stoppered the path. I prepared

to swing into the street but they single-filed

as I increased my pace around them—

legs machining, ponytail tassling—

a showoffy momentary Atalanta

as if to prove what? That I was more alive?

Aliver, a liver? Would remember this

when I was walkered? I knew I wouldn’t

unless I did this to it. So here it is,

end-aged you-me—-a spring Sunday

in 2015. I’m middle-aged, A is beginning-

aged (two years, two months);

the cherries starting at A again, too.

But this week a plane was felled

into the Alps and I keep putting myself on it,

keep feeling my stomach drop out

of the sky as we look at each other,

clutch the baby, know this is the end.

I flee the terrible suitors of my thoughts,

run through the mess the falling

has made of the run. I can’t say yes

to what they propose. My only power

is in saying no, no, no. Was that the MO

and more for the back forty,

my old lady?

from Poetry Northwest 10.2 Winter & Spring 2016More by Rebecca Hoogs from the library

Copyright © Rebecca Hoogs
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

Published in Poems Rebecca Hoogs

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.