Ten Years

I inherited his eyebrows
I got his jawline too, but
didn’t know it until long
after he was gone, when
one day Mom sent me a
photograph of their early
adventures; seeing him
also in his 30s, I thought
I am a girl version of him

To reach the point when
we can narrate our story
objectively, rather than
remember only to grieve

Ten years will do that

(adapted from an essay written February 19, 2018)

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Young Tomatoes

The sun had not crested the wall
I was sure you were sleeping
when I lifted the covers and
stepped out into the yard

In a world both quiet and warring
the air can feel tight, no? But
then I see what I’ve created
together with our Mother

I speak to them; we touch. With the
scent of tomatoes on my hands
how can I not feel at home
despite what today brings

(March 31, 2020)

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At the Gate

Once the race is run
don’t the horses circle back
counter clockwise across
the same turf where once
they stood inside the gate
muscles warmed, minds
furlongs in the future.
Isn’t it also true that in
running the final stretch
they return to the place
new races will unfold?
If I were a horse consider
me ready to be loaded in,
not for the first time,
listening closely for the
bell in the way that I once
was a mare inside a gate
waiting my turn to run
and would like to again

December 30, 2019

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Summer Sound

The new sound came
from somewhere
(I don’t know where)
unmarked, like a letter
with no sender address
just as smooth-edged
as you might picture
and was welcomed
even I say ushered in;
a melodic relief it was
fingered and opened
allowed to unroll itself.
Afterward breath felt
less grim than before,
new skin formed and
could hold more of it,
like how you might feel
if prayers were heard,
finally, after all that time
hoping on your knees.

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