It happens like this:
Having children doesn’t cross your mind
for years, and then
You’re sitting across
from someone who is drinking a glass of red wine.
A longing to hike the Appalachian Trail
follows you around like a lost child in a department store:
not yours, but you want to take care of it,
help it find home, follow it home,
build a campfire for supper.
I keep loading ideas into a van
and letting someone drive off with them.
I can’t describe the kidnapper well. The policeman
yawns. The sketch artist twists my words:
He was drinking mustache. He had a wine.
I keep leaving the station with pills in my hand:
Seroquel, Diazepam, Lorazepam.
Once, I refused to come down from a zipline
platform. I was 13. My best friend ate her braces.
I didn’t trust Jesus. Not immaculately.
They sent a man to rescue me:
They sent a man to rescue me.
I’ll read you a story I wrote while I was waiting
for my order at a fancy restaurant I couldn’t afford:
Once upon a time, there was
Mistakes I’ve made march into the room.
A basic theory of interior design:
use a mirror to make a space look bigger.
Think of the universe: each star, looking glass.