When I swabbed the torn skin of my six-year-old
who’d crashed his bike on the asphalt—
he’d outgrown the Skinnamarink song.
To my mother in our foyer, in her whites as she left
for her brand-new swing shift at the hospital—
to help pay for my college—and I thought she looked so cute,
like the Pillsbury doughboy.
When a bygone bishop asked if I have any sins that should be
cleared with the proper authorities,
and I felt, however gently,
that this was not really his business.
To a fifth-grade boy I liked, on our last day of school:
“I know! Today’s ‘Hope you don’t flunk!’” and I meant
how we each of us needed to carry that hope.
I deeply harmed a beloved relation, who then berated me
in a series of blistering texts. Now we don’t speak.
All because I wrote about him shunning my mom
for her politics.
What matters is that he and Mom speak now.
To two sons at two separate weddings over reception
planning. Details all but forgotten. Apologies
wordlessly affirmed.
We somehow move forward.
So, look: there’s no dance with diplomacy here,
just the slippery backstep, a stumbling waltz.
Forgive me, thou weary, thou generous world!
I’m probably wrong to write out this poem.
Grey Sparrow Journal 