I was six, then—
six or seven—
on a swing set in
September, and
I’m beginning to
remember
how alone I was
that day:

the clouds were dull
eraser shavings,
the wind a hollow
“Hallelujah.”
I pumped my legs, and
at the apex,
I gained an angel-eye
perspective:

the jaws of autumn
clenched their teeth in-
to my sternum,
popped a hole and
stole the summer from
my bloodline,
left a chill inside
my soul;

I’m taking all of this
for granted.
I spell disaster
with my left hand,
I sign “Messiah” with
my right;

and in the arrogance of
twenties, I think
the loneliness has left me,
I think we all don’t
grow up empty,
I think the future
could be bright.