I have
lived in my own book.
One I never planned to write,
recording time backwards and forwards.
I have watched the snow fall onto the sea and traced
the steps of a traveler long gone. I have relived moments
that were perfect in their certainty. Fred buttoning
the khaki shirt he wore for his flying lessons.
Doves returning to nest on our balcony.
Our daughter, Jesse, standing
before me stretching out
her arms.
— Oh, Mama, sometimes I feel like a new tree.
We want
things we cannot have.
We seek to reclaim a certain moment,
sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother’s voice.
I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift.
Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter
taller than me, weeping from a bad dream.
Please stay forever, I say to the
things I know. Don’t go.
Don’t grow.