The first time you flew you told the birds how unfair it is that the air is so much thinner up here, that below they have to breathe the crushing weight of the stratosphere just because they’re accustomed to it, and your gasping for breath doesn’t make any noise yet every day you choose life,
man and wife man and wife
placed in a gunfight with a pocket knife and a guidebook of expectation. You don’t remember filling out an application for this life, for now-flightless wings and for being their daughter,
I will love you come **** or high water
and the first time you flew you heard birds laugh at you and the air was so thin you fell right through, and the silence so thick you landed hard, lungs aching, but you were never afraid of the dark,
in the high water watch out for sharks
because you aren’t one for stark contrasts and it’s nice to feel like nothing at all, keep falling.
The first time you didn’t write a poem you drank tea out of a paper cup, no mug in the sink, no need for anyone to look up when she came home. The first time you used the key in your new house’s door it fit so perfectly that you didn’t feel at home anymore, and the first time you were afraid of the dark you weren’t, because it can’t get you if it can’t see you’ve left any mark.
The first time you didn’t write a poem the *** boiled even though you watched, and you drank tea out of a paper cup and no one looked up, it was biodegradable and then it was gone.
The first time you flew. The first time you really saw you. The first time you heard that song called poison oak, the first time you said what you meant to say, the last time you spoke.