Home on Four Rubber Legs

Branded with the mark of downsizing
(I remember pressing each seed underground.)
and what was sold to grow to fit to sink to away.
Who owns the sentimentality I traded for cash?

Silver webs tie the trees together in chaos,
(I imagined dying easier than creating older versions.)
seen by the sun, weight shifted back and forth:
glinting, glinting, gone. Broken through and spit out.

Sitting in the company of mayflies,
(I divided with the water across three oceans.)
transparent wings and upturned tails,
clear and symmetric seemingly without effort.

A daughter to paint with, another for company.
(I wanted two kids when they weren’t real.)
It’s remarkable I own two pairs of scissors
when I only need one.

Snorkel mask pulling my upper lip taunt
(I search for those pieces I lent to the rivers)
swallowed like bread crumbs broken in the water
by tourists wanting color-plated fish to need them.

Do you remember where you went?
(I note what to ask my dying self.)
Did your warm-blood survive off learnership?
Will you come back?

Blown across the street, king tided on shore,
(I navigate past and through and towards.)
parked in front of a gate, asked to move,
everywhere is home without being home.

First Published in Open Door Magazine, September Issue & Q3 Print Anthology

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