Forgotten Ground Regained

Stiletto

In a battered box · at the back of my closetI’ve placed the present—the paperback she sentthat subtly and not so subtly · skewers the creedI hold and that holds me, at home at last, firmly fixed, well-fastened to this yardof earth above · the emptiness of space we all inhabit here · among the hurling stars.
So I thought to toss it, just trash it, except thenI'd picture it in all her presents; as I pass, sense it in each book or bracelet, in every blessing sentand every ornament · and oddment from this friendthat has sung sunlight · into these stark rooms.
Instead, I sketch · a simple note—"Thanks a lot for thinking of me; oh so thoughtful of you”—drenched with disillusionment. And disingenuously voidof decades of our devotion · and of my deep gratitude that I didn't drop · into the dark back whenI was convalescing and she came · to call me outsideto walk among wildflowers, the ones she named to me:forget-me-not, goldthread, and grape hyacinth.
So I’ll just stew here in my sarcasm, not sent, as I puzzle outthe many months · these moods have shadowed us,and re-count the costs, incalculable, of our misalignments.Or I'll wander among the weeds · wondering howwe've fallen so far · so fast into this abyss of soul skewering · with our stiletto kindnesses.
Copyright © Dorothy Nielsen, 2026
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