by Stephanie Johnson
Am I home alone if
the plants are here?
The pothos, string of pearls,
rabbit’s foot fern
What is life if not a growing
a marking of new heights
on the door frame
Suddenly remembering your mother’s words on posture
for the sake of gaining an inch
When given an inch, you must take a mile.
Miles are not handed out freely here
only earned or bargained for.
No, they must be slipped into
pockets or tucked behind
ears, kept for later.
My papaw once pulled quarters from my ears
without me ever knowing
how he’d gotten them there in the first place.
But I was young and without the urgency of
taking note
or remembering.
Surely now I’d recognize them there
notice a jangling behind the eardrum
Notice the gentle weight of their presence
before it turns to absence.
Pegasus 