Grey-haired, stomach-turning,
I am outside of it all.
Someone who doesn’t fit but refuses to turn,
to be broken, so I fit into a mold.
And where I’ll find my place
and fold onto the board.

Someone not seen, and not heard,
a silhouette of who I am.
Except when whispers echo down long hallways,
and with a pointed finger, they’ll say,
“Why can’t she play the game?”

I am alone in loneliness when I walk,
and sometimes on an early morning run,
or if I stand in the kitchen with a wine glass in hand
where I’ll wonder, how even as a child I felt unknown
and an annoyance, somehow, at the same time.

I walk alone in loneliness, and the lyrics of a lullaby
drum a melancholy beat of stargazers who meet—
the cast-outs on the outside. The outsiders looking in.

My father’s long gone—
But from a photo I saw when he was a boy . . .
He wore shorts to his knees, a white cap, and a shirt,
after he landed on these shores.
He came to Canada as the place
he was born lay in ruins.
He brought with him an unsayable name,
he changed to something sayable.

And now I know, I am alone in loneliness.
I exist on the outside. Somehow, though,
it’s reassuring that I am not alone . . .

Because this feeling from within—
this solo sense is short-lived.
Because the lullaby hints,
others have felt this way.

And this shared shadow of loneliness links me with others and reminds me it will be alright.