First Published in Moist Poetry Journal
With the Wash on Our Hip
We are bigger when we’re born, but the past is not a prologue. When we first get into the world, every last thing is otherworldly. Makes you wonder where we came from. But then, maybe before we get to the middle of our allotted time, with our hair in knots and the wash on our hip, and a permanent ache in our joints, this all becomes it all: it’s our kids turn to momentarily wild-eye the world. Makes us begrudge where we are. We get to the point where our future is present, where we can see the future as forming and reforming (washing and rewashing) the past. And yet, we cannot help but grieve.