3/23/21

Hatching

 How could we know
 what 365 days
 8760 hours
 525600 minutes
 would bring?
 Your mom passing
 I miss her "yeah"s
 and her "hrmmm"s
 the way she rolled her eyes
 left arm across her chest
 right arm up, hand like a gun
 at the side of her face
 maybe Jack got that from her.

 Fucking cancer
 your insides burning
 while trying to sleep through
 in a dark room
 cancer frollicking 
 skipping through your insides
 have a good old time 
 with your blown gall bladder
 your skin shiny and dry
 I wish I could have taken
 some of it
 burned in your stead.
 Maybe we could have 
 bounced it back and forth
 like a game
 of hot potato. 

 COVID.
 Trying not to breathe in
 anyone's air.

 Construction.
 Trying not to breathe in
 mold or roofing paper fumes
 paint or dust.
 I barely remember
 being able to walk in the backyard barefoot
 baby Jack rolling in that green green grass.

 But.
 Look at you now.
 You talk about getting a tattoo
 on your breasts
 a phoenix breaking the gravity
 of pain
 lifting itself despite 
 the weight of dense flames.
 You do not see what I see
 the red hair taking root again
 breaking through flesh forged in fire
 streaking forward
 down every which way
 even from your womanhood.
 Your bright ocean eyes
 I drown in
 whether dry, teary, tired.
 Your smile punching through
 a blast of joy despite this year.
 You dragging yourself through the yard
 the thick barb chewing gloves
 the tools in the dirt
 shaping the world around you 
 to your will.
 You are the phoenix.