Rachel Hahn
on aging

she looks at me,
spindly limbs extending,
half-filling spaces that I can only guess were once
bursting, bubbling, alive.

I do not know her.

I am not afraid of old people anymore.

their eyes do not their ears do not
their skin does not scare me,
their bones, worn bare and unearthed and honest
do not scare me their limbs do not scare me
their mouths do not scare me.

when her eyes find mine earths are round, skies are blue, and

what scares me instead is the uprooting,
the violent push of separation,
the floating
the silence.

"are you her?"

what scares me is the slipping of frames,
the rivers that push cracks into bodies
the places between beginning and ending
the places without mirrors or mistakes.

what scares me is the not forgetting but unknowing,
and that I might not have a face
and the sounds that are not sounds when no one hears them.

what scares me is the waking to find that
as it was

are you her?

Yes, yes,

I am her.