walked alone for the first time
understanding that your reply
to my last email was, all in all
the sweetest “fuck you” you’ll ever say
without us fighting again
over who is superior,
doctors or teachers,
and how you’d joke so wryly
that I was the mother
of the second coming
you’d raise as a solemn atheist,
his freckles becoming mine
and lashes gone blonde against my thumbs.
you said that I could steal one
for every blackhead you brought to tears.
how I thought this was ever okay
may be reenacted by a hungry boy
placing his sandwich in a microwave oven
daintily wrapped in foil
like weddings in a hurricane
and ivory Keds after weekend rain.
these situations that leave you asking
how some have come to breed.