It works much better for my mythology
and my poetry
for you to remain frozen at thirty-one
sitting on the back patio of our casita
doing bong hits and reminding me, again, 
how the patriarchy has ruined your life
all the while plotting your escape from my gravity,
which was weaker than science predicted,

then to know of your trials
and the hardships you faced 
striking out on your own, 
how they differed from mine, 
how long before you could listen
to the Dead again, or bake cornbread, 
slow-cook pinto beans 
on a blue Sunday afternoon, 
how long before you took in a sunset
or made love, 
if your life was easier without me,
if it took more than a minute 
to move on?