possibility

Smile like a torn sail, 
bravado can be a 
current before ever 

just brave, 

children hesitate or 
tremble, my 

own hands, too. 

A father’s photograph 
on the shelf, 
my mother’s plane 
she made her symbol, too 

though he was first the pilot- 

I can hold 
without a sound. 

I listen to music 
when I’m afraid, 
place headphones over 
what I held onto 

of things known before 
I became this version 
of me, to calm 

the old panic 
that doesn’t come 
too often anymore. 

It’s not that I don’t 
know how bad it could be, 
only that the fear 

doesn’t matter, only 
joy at the end, 
love and 

what remains of 
your self that fear 
would try to 

kill. 

The fragile cord 
hand over hand 
formed 

that holds me to grief 

I say, ‘quiet’ 
repeatedly 
as it tries to 
pull 

same way the ocean 
waves lull into peace 
or acceptance, I 
tap out 

sometimes, 
exhausted. 

And have so little tolerance 
for any pretense, 
though I care 

a person hurts 
maybe because pretense 
and lies take energy. 

Same old gravity 
I’ve always been, 
even when John left 

because the world was too 
hard for him, or my friend 
dragged me down the stairs 
that night after slipping 

something in my drink, 
and much later 

pounding my feet against 
a bathroom door to 
keep it closed, 

same old gravity 
of knowing 

what shouldn’t be known, 

and I am lighter 
than seems right 
because of it. 

I remember how my mom 
was beautiful, but I knew 
her haunted words- 

she gave me a script 
I’ve spent half a lifetime 

rewriting. 

So let the night be night 

slow down and watch 
the hummingbirds’ 
quick hover 

their lovely, 
brief life, 

the dog’s paw casually 
upon my knee as 
she sleeps means 

I am her safety, now, 
how I needed for so long; 

I want to not be the one 
left behind, but I really 
think it’s just the way 

of life, 

and when I ran before, 
I became abstract/ 

temporarily 
blurred around the 
edges until 

I could stop to build 
what was needed of myself, 

I think it was necessary, 
because where I started 
wanted to stay an 
endless night 

and I had so little 
to stand on. 

Hand that touches petals that 
could be violent, hand 
that holds instead- 

my love will never involve 
death of self for me 
to stay, 

never. 

Somehow, 
I hold the truths that 
seemed more complicated 
than they are 

where I had to keep 
some truths separate 
from others like, 

a person can have goodness
and be terrible, and
I may love them 
though they’re too hurt 
to not hurt others:

if looking hard enough 
even the people we call evil 
or just say, have done 
terrible things

have good qualities,

but it doesn’t mean 
they are redeemable,

it doesn’t mean you 
should not protect 
your self as if 

you were told 
your life meant less 
than their own 

from too young an age 
to know the truth 
without pain,

we are encouraged to forgive 
before we understand what it means
from people who don't know forgiveness

and we skip over the fact 
that love of self comes first,
acknowledging pain comes first. 

After mom is gone, I can love 
the best parts of her 
and the best of 

all she gave me 

and hold her truth 
for her, hold her leaving 
before she left even 
and unanswerable 
questions/
her need to run far 
and run often 

to persist/ I 
hold her 
still. 

I think I’m a little proud 
of my softness after 
it all, of my anger 
even 

that bakes beneath 
and makes me 
quietly relentless 
in things 

and glad to have been 
the daughter of a 
philosopher of sorts 

and lucky, 
I had him, too 
along with the quickness 
she gave me, and her 
heart like a butterfly, 

never needing 
any one thing 

so I could become all the ways 
needed to survive, or at least 
to know what I needed to do 
before I could know them 
reading all the words 

that came before me 

like what the Stoics strived for 
and the very old living in 
the cave of a mountain 

but my own way 
and most definitely not, 
stoically. 

I could never just trust 
what someone said 

and asked endless 
questions, which 
I guess is what happens 

when the reality you grow in 
is unreliable, and you learn 
to trust out of loyalty alone 
is dangerous. 

The old thoughts 
like jagged rocks 
tumbling year 
over year 

smooth, 

as much as a tumbling 
stone can become 
until ready to sit 

at the water’s edge to 
let the waves do 
the rest 

is more than enough- 
to see then a torn sail 
like the possibility it is, 

incredibly beautiful

and questions ever simpler 
than they could be before,
like is a boat on the ocean 
ever truly lost.