Donna Pucciani
Wheaton, Illinois, United States

You’ve got to walk that lonesome valley . . .

—American Folk Song

We learn to be alone
for months when microscopic
murder floats in the air
like so much smoke.

We learn to fear
the passing stranger
whose only misdeed
is walking two large dogs
on our shared sidewalk,
their communal breath
exploding in lethal stardust.

We learn to cross the street.
Some days when remembered
happiness hangs overhead
like suspended sunshine,
we may even wave.

Winter is one step ahead,
spelling dread after a golden fall
drifts into the silver arms
of hoarfrost.

Ice underfoot slides us closer
to the rotting mouth of death
on a moonless night, alone.

Well, nobody else can walk it for you.
You’ve got to walk it by yourself.