When I Was Young, My Future

by Michelle Hulan

photo by Tala Dursun Marko on Unsplash

When I was young, my future
was as sure as static on the screen.

There were backs arching. A woman’s hand
reaching past shadows. Torsos

tethered to no discernable plot. I felt my way
toward desire blindfolded in a hum

of bees. Sometimes I bang my fists against sheet metal
just to hear its sound hit walls and return as echo—

My past always has the last word,
but I never met a future I didn’t like.

I never learned to hold more than one possibility
in the curves of my palms, so I became a moth

clinging to any surface in moments
between chrysalis and flight.

Imagine what I clung to when my wings
were still young and wrinkled with wet ocean-shaped drops.

I once believed in cartesian divide,
that my soul sat at my body’s helm, armored with flesh

rising toward heat. I marveled at sparks
in the corners of my eyes. Called it proof

I was once light. In the name of my holy
limbic system, I bore witness to my nerves

spreading into hands built to press this world. Veins,
like knots in a cat’s cradle. So taut

I couldn’t tell what vibrates from what shivers.
I know what is to be undone,

to press my cheek against anything unkind.
Spend my days praying at the altar

of unity for someone to take a match to my tongue
before it slips down my throat.

I am most myself searching for crumbs
and finding light. When I live in the liminal space

between a decision and smoke plume.
When I peel rotten petals from pavement

to make bouquets. But is it so naïve to believe
embers can outweigh flames?

That the satellites we count are stars? That my body
is a universe, caught in the space

between infinite and indeterminate? That this flesh
is more miracle than cage?

Please. Don’t answer. When I was young,
my future was as sure as static

on the screen. Now I find pleasure in seeking,
and lick the honey from my fingertips.

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