January, with Teeth

Artist unknown

January, With Teeth

I shut the book without a bookmark.

Let the dog-ears keep their scars.

Yesterday can hum to itself in a drawer,

full of receipts, full of almosts,

full of apologies that learned to walk in circles.

The year arrives like struck flint—

not gentle, not asking—

a blade of cold light splitting the dark.

Morning snaps its fingers in my face.

Even the clocks stand straighter.

I am done kneeling to what was.

Done polishing ghosts,

done reheating the same regret

until it pretends to be wisdom.

The past may keep its trophies;

I want my hands free.

This is the hour that smells of iron and snow,

of engines turning over,

of maps unfolding themselves.

My pulse has learned a new grammar:

verbs first, excuses crossed out.

I swear it plainly—no ornate vow—

I will not spend this year like loose change.

I will not blink and call it living.

I will show up early to my own days

and stay until the lights are cut.

If I fail, let it be forward.

If I break, let it be into motion.

The gate is open.

The road is rude with promise.

I step out,

and the year—finally—

begins to run.

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Christopher Reilley Poems