The cost of anything
starts to show.
The floating
lanterns in Chang Mai
landing.
My wedding dress
smothered three
grasshoppers in tulle.
Then there was
the talismanic dandelion
obligate among the snow
as if it had the right.
Nothing where
it was supposed to be.
My mother’s mind
no longer holding
onto the years.
And so I fashioned
myself unmotherable
in preparation.
Cried to find that
even the sun
is a bell.
Tolling through
years to try
and announce
a close.
The tungsten
flare of progress
contours
the ephemeral
fuckery of it all.
These first thirty
years have been
a series
of collecting
all the things
I am in no way
prepared to lose.
Once on an
interstate
late at night
_____a loveseat
thrown from
a truck bed
into traffic.
The swerve
so immaculate
I somehow knew
it was my last
close call.
