poem

I’m sorry I can’t be there today.

If this is love then this is all I have ever wanted.

even the universe / crackles in your eye.

Their flawed care, / But perfect love

We confuse the day and the night. / It is no one’s fault.

I am not afraid of ghosts.

When I see freedom, I see a sun as hot as an angel clutching not only your hand, my hand, the hands of your daughters, but the hand of that woman on the bus who you gave the shoes off your feet because she liked them.

I can grow wings, even feather-light bones

I’m not really sure what it means to be home.

I move four fingers each hand. Two makes eight. Thumbs are not fingers. Digits, though. I have ten digits.