If I Could Turn Back Time
I’d press kestrels & wrens
into their shattered eggs,
knit each shard to one smooth form, & return them
to yolk & stillness. I’d will the potted sprouts
on your windowsill to make home
of their seeds again. Your garden
of sungolds & romas would slim
to sharp beads of green on silver-furred leaves,
the stakes, coiled with their heft, moaning relief.
& I’d teach everything that falls to rise.
& everything made will unravel itself. Somewhere,
the fox wanes her jaw & out
staggers a hare, intact. Somewhere,
the sky turns to hunger. Lightning
becomes a tongue drunk up by the clouds.
The horizon goes full on the sun
falling east & lifts the moon
You would still be on your rusted balcony,
hair cornrowed & scratched tight
to your skull, Goodwill sweats
scattering the hourglass slope of you.
Below, cars reverse the freeway & 4 AM inhales
a fog stained with daylight.
You would ask, again, for my forgiveness
& you would have it.
I would not call you by a dead name.
I would have stayed as long
as you wanted.
I see you condensing from broken angle on wet cement
to boy. You, rising, limbs backstroking the air. Wind
parachuting you & your strange tunic
up, unmourned, to the lip
of the roof.
Spring, 2019 Issue