Issue 4: Echoes

I.

Well SHIT.
You were right. Again.
This one took 20+ years
to figure out, but here
I am, begrudgingly
admitting sometimes,
Mother does know best.

II.

There is a certain type
of alchemy in a poem, taking
metal words and turning them
golden. You told me the secret 
isn’t in the alchemy, it’s more
akin to witchcraft:
bit less science, bit more magic,
bit more in my bones. 
There is no single formula,
and when brewed correctly,
I will forget I was trying
to make gold in the first place.

III.

I am lost at sea. The boat
and the storm, shipwrecked
vessel drowning in a tempest
you cannot tame, so you teach
me to breathe
underwater.

I resurface
with gills, lungs full
of ocean, and the will
to live. 

IV.

You are telescope,
magnifying glass, mirror.
You have been shattered.
You are the broken shards
and the cement in the mosaic.
You are mosaic.

I have been shattered too.
You try to reassemble me,
gather my broken gently.
When my edges cut you,
when your edges cut me,
we both know how to mend.

V.

You teach me warp and weft, 
weave grief and memory
between claws and fangs.

I learn to take up space,
to bite back.
When to draw blood, 
when to only leave a mark.
To be fierce without harm.
How to leave and when to stay.
Even when you know it means
I’ll be leaving you, 

I always come back. 

VI.

I remember when it was just
you and me, screaming
into the void, all tongues,
teeth, and time dissolving
into laughter and stardust.

We are gathering place
and hummingbird hearts.

We are crossroads,
highways that long
to be cobbled streets, dirt paths, 
grassy fields. 
We are saltwater
ocean spray healing
wounds. 

We are mixed metaphors,
and too many justs, scattered
sticky notes, made up
words.

This is all to say you taught me
to pick my battles
wisely. I can’t fight genetics.
For the most part, I don’t
want to anymore.