In my great tale
my predestined coming-of-age
Innocuous, bittersweet
glad
To have made it this far alive,

I hope my heroine is mostly the same.
I think I am in one of those years
less about changing
More about remembering.

Returning to the belly that didn’t question
Whether it was full or hungry.
a return to self-regulation and boundaries that
quaked ferociously—screams.
That baby—knows how to say no.

I don’t think I’m changing.
I think I’m remembering
things we are untaught
we learn again
and I sadly believe this is a cyclical thing
But today I’m remembering.

My coming-of-age
20 returns to two.
I write my script in a font that fits
and fight the urge to ask my mother’s opinion.

I surely will come of age again.
Around 32
Again at 45
Heaven forbid I should reach 59.
And every year before or after that.
20 returns to two.
Remembering histories in vibrant pink
Futures, navy blue.