She made the transition with little effort.
One moment we’re twenty, comparing dreams and lovers;
the next moment a two-year old in the park with a scraped knee
is calling her “mother,” expecting her to wipe his tears,
falling into the groove between her hip and her breast,
as if he has always belonged there; even before he existed.
She tends to us both; stroking his head to calm his fears
and nodding at me with the hint of a distracted smile
as I tell my story – another story – of love and loss
and the burning desire I have to create things, to mark
the world with my breath.
The boy wonders if his mother had ever been like me, her flighty friend,
who lives in rented studio apartments
with temporary men and temporary furniture
and roots as shallow and spindly as a desert cactus.
“Don’t you want to settle down?” she asks me
one morning over muffins while the boy plays with his train.
“You can have all this, you know. There is nothing more than this,
Her eyes reflect the kind of love that makes me
want to break things, to smash vases against the walls, to
rip pieces of paper into millions, to weep
for all the inarticulate utterances
I am unable to communicate in defense of my weak roots
So I just say