seeds  •  February 2022

under a pale April moon

there is a triptych of freckles

on my right hand

enough of something to cut out.

my nose, my shoulders, my mouth:

will these get sick like you?

my father is only a few years younger

than his father was

when he died.

I can never remember how tall I am, or

how many years pass between us;

planes pass overhead.

the cell phone towers are still there.

the flesh still sags, warm and stale.

I can see my mom

making paintings about my death

only a short distance away.

your hands are holding the moon

they don’t bring it closer to me

I can still only watch it rise

and fall

from the window.

I keep the wanting brief

so that it can never be taken away

from me.

inside the dark November

there is a triptych of freckles

on my right hand

enough of something to cut out.

my eyes, my hair, my legs:

will I get sick like you?