she could wear a dress
her mother stitched
for her thirteenth birthday

or a maroon scarf
she salvaged from a chest
in the locked attic

no, it’s an oversized cloak
found in her brother’s closet
its pockets heavy with hiding

none of this matters
all of it matters
we are in the room together

when the journey begins
we step together
scene by scene

each decision conjuring
another
and another

everything
and nothing
in my control

in this scene

in this scene

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*65/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.