How It Is Now, How It Was
as a boy panning the stream behind my house
for the minnows that drilled
down the current in schools. They moved as one—
muscular, thick, sequined—
so if I dipped down, I could nearly scoop
handfuls of their bounty up
to my chest like some dream of my hunter ancestors
lost in the currents
of my DNA. I imagine desire like this.
But whenever I stabbed
my hand into that glacier water, they dispersed
at once, every one. And this entertained me
until the day I did catch one, held its slim, jeweled body
inside my fist. The thrill
of its tail flickering inside my palm
like candlelight, like a snake’s forked tongue
until I unclenched my hand to let it go and saw
it was already gone.
Nurture
As souls in heaven, before inhabiting their bodies, children choose
their mothers. I heard my mother say this exactly twice.
Once after we had fought in the car to cut the silent ride home.
And once on the phone with my aunt after my cousin shot himself
through the mouth. I was born after a summer solstice
under a new moon. Rain thickened the green outside my window.
Above my crib two portraits of angels hung.