Migration

Not the fists he holds tightly at his sides,
not his puffed-out chest bracing wind
or the mast that’s planted behind you both.

You’ll try, but
none of it—not even your arm
slid through his—
will be enough
to stop
this sensation
of falling.

Coil, then unravelling

It’s early morning. Sticky summer air
pokes through window-screen holes
onto your curled-up body
like sun rays on a little spore.

Dad pokes his head in
to see if you’re up. You bound
out of bed, uncurl, follow him, full of sweaty, summer dreams,
full of thick sleep.

You’ll get older and keep doing this.

This life of yours, windblown,
will always be like a piece of string

coiling, then unravelling in the wind.

Suitcase, knapsack, handbag, box: what you put things in.
Luggage: what you take with you.

This is how the world is made

After supper, run down patio steps
to where your backyard ends
and the wild forest starts. The air
is thin and cool.

Animals dart their sparkling eyes
at you like bright, shooting fires.
Black walnuts
and apples sit
scattered at the trees’ feet.

Touch them.
Their dried-up cores
are still breathing.

Photo paper

We’ll all think the music’s still playing after we go
and we’ll keep singing.
My mother’s smile,
too, will be like a feather she's holding.
It will fall away softly.
We’ll hardly notice.

Sometimes, you wants your life

To be like you remember it in this picture
of you: starched white dress, socked feet on hot grass.

You make the picture a place, you forget
it’s just a picture. Not
any more a thing
than a locket
in the shape of a heart.


I think you can look at a photo long enough that the moment changes in your mind. I think you can also do this without a photo.