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