These next few moves matter
this I know to be true
that the distance between us
grows stiff with years
and we are different now,
and we have never been this
way—far away; chasing the tail
of our twenties. I am something
in between this and then
and these next few moves speak volumes
thousands of expired encyclopedias
are shouting wait Wait WAIT!
but we are on an airplane
and the wheels are up
and our phones are off
and the last thing I said was I’m sorry
but I can’t remember what for
these next few moves matter
they are the scribble
with which we write our lives
and these are not apologies
as much as manafestos.
and these next few moves
are happening outside my body
a reflex, a habit, a whole.
thoughts on adoption
So graciously they came to flight
the hopeful helpless thunder feet
a wonder peril of sweetest destiny—
Hush the yellow breath of youth.
My mother was a dandelion;
a child of spring who—white tipped—
fall time scattered her loveliness a-gail.
& we were seed babies, the loneliest
of kinfolk. Trilling about in the southbound
winds, propellors. By night we
saught the dog star,
untangled leo’s mane,
unbuckled orion’s belt.
& we were happy—to be swept away
by high breezes / to root ourselves
amid gardens, beside blessed blooms
our hearts cracked open to reveal
a green gnawing to grow & like the mums
among us we were trimmed / pruned / fertilized.
But I wonder of my mother—a capricious weed.
If someday too I’ll flock my seeds
to be forgotten.