Time Is a Mother

I ate the apple not because the man lied

when he said I was born of his rib

but that I wanted to fill myself with its hunger

for the ground, where the bones of my people

still dream of me.

It’s true I’m all talk & a French tuck

but so what. Like the wind, I ride

my own life. Neon light electric

in the wet part of roadkill

on the street where I cut my teeth

on the good sin. I want to

take care of our planet

because I need a beautiful

graveyard. It’s true I’m not a writer

but a faucet underwater. When the flood comes

I’ll raise my hand so they know

who to shoot.

Stand back, I’m a loser on a winning streak.

Nobody’s free without breaking open.

Because what I did with my one short beautiful life—

was lose it

on a winning streak.

childhood

is only a cage

that widens

I thought

the fall would

kill me

but it only

made me real

I didn’t want him to

be beautiful—but needing beauty

to be more than hurt gentle

enough to hold, I

reached for him. I reached—not the bull—

but the depths. Not an answer but

an entrance the shape of

an animal.

What we’ll always have is something we lost

Then it came to me, my life. I remembered my life

the way an ax handle, mid-swing, remembers the tree.

& I was free.