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in fall, the year you grew to be six feet |
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i tempered my fear into haste, |
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a worry that dogged our mother. |
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she, the baby of three, asked how |
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so many things could take flight at once. |
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there are no easy answers, and even thirteen, i |
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could not think of a sure reply. |
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at the church where i was baptized, |
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our father refused to park near the crowd |
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at that time, i still believed in god, or faeries, |
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or that the air could catch on fire. |
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when you and your friends took off on separate routes, |
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i wanted to follow you. |
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but our mother said i was not allowed to. |
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you had not yet learned how to fill such a broad frame. |
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that winter you said you hated your body, |
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but when spring came, you'd learned how to speak, |
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and you moved west |
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to watch the ocean eat the coast away. |
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i can still remember that day you left, |
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thoughts spilling out from my chest, |
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like, "who will you be when you come back" |
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or even, "will you come back?" |
