Pockets
I wish I’d kept more to myself
rather than laying it all out
on whatever surface was offered
like if I could just show you,
if I could just explain—
You don’t have to show everyone
your hands, my pockets whispered,
clenched teeth, my sleeves, falling
to my elbows, ached to stay
too long, to cover my wrists
like small turtlenecks.
For so long I thought that’s what might
save me—showing that I’m no threat,
not to anyone—
but I’m finally seeing it can leave you
with nothing left to reach for.
Rebecca Brock’s work appears in The Threepenny Review, CALYX, Mom Egg Review, Rust & Moth and elsewhere. In 2022, she won the Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Poetry Contest at The Comstock Review, the Kelsay Books Women’s Poetry Prize and the Editor’s Choice Award at Sheila-Na-Gig. She is a MacDowell Fellow and holds an MFA from Bennington College. She has been a flight attendant for most of her adult life and is still surprised by this fact. You can find more of her work at www.rebeccabrock.org.
