I was born with hitchhiker’s thumbs,
so I think you’ve always known I was transient.
You settled down on an island,
stranded us on the Atlantic,
hoping i’d glean meaning from the shore.
While you worked, I perfected my breaststroke.
The “Great Dominican Hope”
was hardly worth the boarding pass
you creased in a sweaty fist
back when Clinton was still president
and Old Glory still felt like a safety blanket.
You burned a prayer candle for every night I didn’t call,
ran calloused fingers down rosary beads
in the hopes that you’d see me
in some way other than old photographs.
7 years old in a Communion dress,
that’s how you remember me.
like i’m not 30 miles away but six feet deep,
I looked so grounded in church pews.
You still save me a seat.