Poetry

I am perched on my shadow. // Morning sings the sun’s song

Since much grows in mud, not in spite of mud, / I’m making a life out of my little failures.

It’s so cool, he says, there’s a word for that. I wish / I knew a word for everything.

Doomed or blessed to die where she birthed / Never tasting weightlessness

Love wins, they say. And it does. But / parenting can also feel like swallowing shimmering / glass sometimes

so only I / saw as the heron / leapt, claiming the air.

my life tiny, my life tiny / underneath / these dry strata

she can’t hear the wings and you want to cry, she never looks when you point and yell “‘beauty, beauty'” at the sky.

I want to say I tended you too. / I want to say I was a gardener

it claws at her from inside

I want to ask, what boundaries? I want / to say, I swing wide open, fences crushed