Trust
       

It is easy to unlearn, easier still to forget
the faces of those who earned it fair-and-square
before something—a light switch, a sound—
replace the just-opened eyes, the silent ear,
even the slight blush of cheeks with something
akin to ominous. Recoil and run
is the way to go when fear's tattooed
the inside of the brain, synapse after synapse
signaling SOS to the next and next and next generations
even when the path is clear and the flow of truth
steady. Yes, everyday veins can handle
the heavy, but let's switch stories. Do you
remember your narrative when I ran—
what was left of my heart heaving—
into you? Can I remember your tightrope
of certainty disintegrating? Even
the indelibly inked veins can be removed,
the con artist promises, echoing our measure
of true, truth, trust—the new syllables
solid on our tongues, ready to speak,
speaking.

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Copyright © 2021 Marjorie Maddox All rights reserved
from Twelve Mile Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission