I wonder what kind of growing I will choose—the weed pushing up through New York concrete / unrolled in defiance of dog piss-coated shoes declaring home, or the dandelion seed adrift in eddied time, making one. either way, the same flower is carried thousands of miles.
“Look, Aunt Adele” —/ Then opens her own pocket universe / as she carefully parts puckered thumbs / to push another one inside. / “It’s a secret,” she says, laughing, / tinkling sweet as the Little Prince, / while all our hearts sing the bottom notes.
when an ocean is green, there / is much left to be done / oil to extract, lather on bodies / & skin desiccated by the harsh / grasp of saltwater crystals / drenched in heated milk
Yet when I was five, you boarded a plane / and I went to bed every night / your name on my lips / a prayer / as if I was less afraid of you dying outside my control / than of simply forgetting / you existed.
