It was my birthday yesterday.
I turned 26 with flowers, hiking in Muir Woods, a cookbook and anthology of quasi-erotica, tapas
and chocolate mousse to inaugurate my continued becoming.
Few friends called. Grief.
My mom made a trip up to celebrate with me and
I leaned close to her skin every chance I got—closer than before.
By pushing away the inches between our faces I became a warrior
on the battlefield of things- slipping -away:
my leaning –
a shield
mother daughter breaths waltzing in midair –
knives cutting through the enemy of distance.
Her Friday night theology put Amos, Ike and Zeek to shame. Grace.
She drove away, after kissing my cheek with force this morning.
I watched the white SUV—that I’d deplore anyone else for driving—cruise down
Le Conte slowly and fingered eye sockets for fear of control loss.
Ten minutes later I found a project to do
in this empty apartment and poems snowflaked from on high
while Sade’s King of Sorrow cooed my silly little sadnesses
back to their sleepy places.
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