Walking to dialysis, I bounce.
I feel my hips swing behind me,
pumping me high above the playground.  

I am young; I have a world ahead of me.
I won’t need glasses for three decades.
Now, I can’t keep them clean. Eyes fail.  

My mother became blind in one eye.
The woman I now recognize was my
best friend, who always read, did, too.  

It’s different not to see craters
on the moon, or the shadows of
my mother’s face, orbiting above me.  

I see everything through jellied gauze.
It’s there, just out of reach, like spirits
in a graveyard that we bring with us.  

They set us free. We soar through time,
remembering delight. I see you run after
the wild goose who refused to fly.  

You skip trip, chasing after him, laughing.
You bend to pick up a spent magnolia blossom.
I still have its ruby seeds.  

Or maybe it’s just one I found, your talisman.
Thank you for this earth, this loneliness
that makes me seek you in my sky.