in the echoings

i appreciate the heads up
of your plans to kidnap me
i joke
brave i say for going in
to do that deep work
about her healing around home
where the mode of communication was often yelling generally hurtful/shaming/mean things
shiny she says radiant
who is that i ask pointing
to the bird tottering
on a bare branch,
tail flicking for balance
whose colors are blues, redbrowns, graywhites and blacks
that’s a kestrel. male she says
i remember how you said – i’m 40, i’m too old for this shit 
sometimes i say that too now, even though i’m 34  she shares
how even though i am content
in this colliding
there is still sadness in the overlay
of past/present as we
re-circle sites
that held us when we were a different constellation
a poem in four parts
typewritten on light green paper
for simona’s 47th birthday
and read aloud in the echoings
of the partitioned studio
the black dots in the bottom
of the creme brulee
(in celebration of simona’s 47th)
that amy points out
are from a vanilla bean
grated at the bottome
of the dish
snow, the slow and big-flaked kind
illuminated in the side roads we
slowly drive down
that beauty can still happen
on a day of such an evil


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