my friends begin bearing children and
buying the good toothpaste.
haul their belongings into the back of red texas pick-up trucks,
(books about bakunin and blackstrap molasses, single socks and packs of cat-food)
drive deep into the sweet mimosa belly of the south.
we inhale reluctant cigarettes, battle breaths
against the shimmying of the juneflies.
everything is collapsing all the time
but we still have to pay our car insurance,
find milk to feed our babies
chase the dog down the dark road.
one day you'll live someplace where the bees get to know you,
where you will milk the rust out of the kitchen tile
and gather the dandelions into wine bottles.
one day you will have a love that does not taste like fear,
you will host a life in your belly and she will grow like a scallop
in a thick sea.
I try but I cannot manage to grow any younger.
My mouth turns into a kite and I am lifted miles from these red hills,
I am lifted to a sweet dream kingdom, a small dance under a half-moon.