On my hands and knees
I’m scouring in the dirt
searching for the root 
of who we are

Is the answer 
a code to be unlocked
in our blood, our genetic
makeup, a fate waiting to unfold?

Is it a weaving 
of every food we’ve consumed, every pesticide
exposure, every drunk cigarette, every one night stand,
of blind actions and inactions?

I’m stuck — face deep in the soil;
towering above, our family oak 
grows a new branch and 
a robin begins to build her nest

It’s hard to look at your childhood photos

and know that you didn’t have

what you needed and deserved.

I ache for that little girl.

I want to protect her.

Sometimes I wonder if I would sacrifice

what we have now

if I could go back in time

and be an adult in your life

who loved you through all the hard things

you experienced,

stuff no child should have to endure.

I don’t just want to love you

in the present

and the future.

I want to love you in the past as well,

all the versions of you

that could have used some help.

Sometimes I wish

I could rewrite history

even if it means unwriting us.

I wish I could give you

the safety and security and happiness

you always should have had.

Welcome to Earth, or whatever. I never wanted to say that
and I didn’t think I would and I still don’t think I need to. 
You said it to me, I’m sure. You must’ve said to me before
and I just don’t remember. You’ve always said that kind of
stuff to me, that kind of sappy shit. Sweetheart, you said, 
you say, honey, in that kind-of-but-not-quite disappointed 
voice, where you still love me, of course you still love me, but
you’re confused and you think I’m pitiful and maybe also a 
little bit dumb. But you still love me, of course you still love me,
and of course I love you, too. Sweetie, you say, sighing, but 
you don’t ignore me even if you don’t listen to what I’m saying.
I told you I’ve been really into “My Little Town” lately, and when
I mentioned it again I stopped myself and you wanted to know
what I was going to say. Oh, you said, well of course I remember
you saying that, because I listen to everything you say all the time. 
It’s not like I carve every word you say into stone to remember and
keep and hold onto forever, either. You have to tell me things once or
twice or thrice or whatever the -ice word for a fourth time is.
Sometimes a fifth. Not all that often a fifth time, but sometimes. 
I was the second, and you were the fourth, but you were the first
to me, and the only, and always you’ll be my first and best,  
even when you get bitchy and snappy and short and I have to say,
Hey, if you can’t say anything nice at all then don’t talk to me. 
I was the second, your second, but it doesn’t make me feel any less
like the winner I am. I’m so lucky, but so are you. Do you feel 
lucky? I could be a worse daughter and you could be a worse father.
Neither of us want that, though. Of course not. Is this where
I’m supposed to say, oh, but also you could be a better father?
I’ve never once thought that. I’m serious. I would sometimes
want you to love me a little differently, to be a little gentler
or pay a little more attention, but I have never thought that
you didn’t and don’t love me enough. In all the things and all the
times in this world I have not trusted, your love has not
failed me even once. I wonder if you feel the same. Maybe
I’ll ask you tomorrow, and you’ll laugh, and you’ll tell me
how I ask the weirdest, silliest questions. I don’t think you’ll
answer me, and I don’t think I need you to. We both know. 

you think 

Before the cross uncross shot

        made famous by Sharon Stone
        three of us,
        desks turned to face the rows
        of a freshman science class,
        and we counted the teacher as four,
        there was no one who could have missed
        the daily criss crossing of the blond,
        blue-eyed girl in the first row.

        It was innocent,
        at first,
        white cotten panty,
        flowers,
        an occasional green glimpse,
        but one day,
        she criss crossed,
        and it was there,
        shaved bare.

        Four faces, eyes focused,
        unbelieving,
        like the men in the film,
        when the Sharon Stone clip, 
        32 years later hit the big screen.
        It was reported that Sharon Stone
        was the only one in the room
        for her shoot.

        It was a fact that four of us
        counting our teacher, too.
        did not skip class that year.

you gave me coffee
today, so we cannot have
anal sex tonight

The air tingles with vibrations,
small waves stirred by wings
in figure 8 vortexes
where she pauses
as if listening to every
little prayer you hum.

A strained face. A grunt.
Is it a toot or much more?
I guess we’ll find out.

is there not a point
when disappointment, frustration, the like
take a back burner
revealing the sun
all its fullness
yellow, glimmering glory
allowing for the outburst
wildflowers, even on a downtown stretch
between the street and sidewalk
the mundane thrown aside
not gently
the honest meaning, hope
found, present in the blowing stems
bright colors atop