We dreamed of boys on boulders,
soft moss for a mattress,
sunlight dappled like blush on our chins,
but woke to pool cues,
popcorn butter,
and Sting on the stereo —
Bollywood mornings in borrowed pajamas,
your mother’s aloo chat
the closest I’d come
to sacred.

You never broke,
not the way a girl does
when the tether frays and she’s still pretending
the kite string is held.

If you stumbled —
a bad Catholic boyfriend,
Planned Parenthood and stealthy pills,
schnapps after prom —
you regained your footing quickly,
balletic recoveries from teenage dreams,
pirouettes, not pitfalls.

You turned right
into the MCAT score, the white coat, the right husband,
the three girls in silks, ankles ringing like bells,
just what your parents prayed for.

If you don’t call any more
I want you to know, I don’t mind.

But sometimes I picture
your daughters dancing,
and us watching from the kitchen,
just like we used to watch TV —
you cross-legged,
me curled like a question —
and I wonder
if you still remember
the rock,
how green it was,
how quiet and lush,
how pristine we left it,
out of goodness,
out of time,
out of everything but
want.