How do you pretend you're no longer connected to someone whose blood is your blood, whose eyes you see when you look into the mirror, whose forehead is the same smooth brown instead of a billboard across which warnings to stay away have been spray- painted? I don't think I could, even if I tried. I'm not even sure I know how. But I grow unsteady, moving into these new thickets of later life. I weep into the soup, brighten at the sound of bells, at the effusions of spring. Every morning I swing my legs out of a dream and back into the world.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
