Memory

II 
At about the height 
of the treetops, 
my flying coach chuckled at me
when I told her 
I’d always believed 
I’d need actual wings to fly. 
“Solar plexus, Solar plexus.” 
She whispered. 

 IX 
She was too young 
when a man took her innocence. 
When she got it back, 
it was broken. 

 LII 
Windblown curtain, paintbrush, 
budding forsythia, whistling 
tea kettle. What did I 
come in here for?

Followers