that summer my cousin came
way down from goshen, utah for four whole weeks
and when she had to leave i
cried.

dust billowing up behind horse hooves
in the sticky heat or bitter cold
in breeze or rain or shine,
the feeling of flying.

i’d never, ever forget it, for
when a bird knows Freedom she
will not settle for cages.

my first copy of Falling Up, off
the shelves of the school library and
never returned, pages folded and flipped
and worn like a favorite sweater.
thirty times or more, i read in corners
at my sister’s dance studio and cars and
chairs on the porch, me and shel sitting,
sipping lemonade and apple juice.

i still feel it in the way the
leaves look greener in the rain.

some nights my heart is filled to the brim
so i take the sharpened tip of my pencil and
pierce
the quivering flesh and pour out
line after line after line on the page, but
when i look down all i see are the lines
of my mother’s face etched into the paper.

and when the night is dark and the air is still,
off the letters comes the sound of galloping.