glossing over something profound
a grumbling stomach? a shin-gash?
the week-old seedlings tilting
in the planter box that hangs off the rail?
our desire is still to have a larger yard
an ohia forest lined by ti and crush
cinnamon leaves under six busy feet.
I don’t think I will ovulate this year.
I don’t think of running without purpose
through the purple haze of miconia.
in the shade there will be timers,
water spouts spewing us, us, us.
those years I hold onto
like the skinned knees of a runaway
I will tell my girls I was that girl
and for my boys to look for her.
or if there are no children, hold knees tightly
and think of the brown suitcase
that lugged the pair of pleated shorts
of a choked up five year old
and The Yearling down the driveway
and that some species are invasive
because they grow at the base
of a trunk and swallow the roots.
I don’t think I will go to jail again.
I don’t think I will tell my best friends
what were in the other diaries.
my book will always be growing
and does it matter what shape
approval makes when that too will age?
I do think of roof rust and why paradise
isn’t an adword but I watch my boss
try to buy it while I am clicking like a duck.
I think of the woman’s breathiness over the phone
and the other woman who on a Seattle bus
smiled at me with her trachea wide open.
I don’t think I will smoke again,
I don’t think I will curate again,
complain again, watch the nurse change
my mother’s drains again,
dance with my grandmother,
carve wood with my grandfather,
hold my parents’ hands.
I don’t think I will do ecstasy again,
snort cocaine or percocet or vicodin
but only because it’s easier when we’re not.
I will always think the cyst in my brain
is growing, even if it’s stunted,
even if I am stubbed, stabbed, struck
I don’t think I will urinate down a library shoot
again, or a football field again, or admit
or that when I was teaching regret
filled my throat like an oiled rope
I slid down and apologized
with caution for all our parts.
I saw a sunrise today and burned
and my lover burned me too.
love is a hot day and a long hike.
how could anyone be sorry for this?
how could anyone have kept walking
through the forest and not thought
how did we get here?
I bought bandages for this and for that.
I opened a new box and slipped one on,
fed the plants and ate a mango
picked from the biggest tree on Hele street.