I am a widepalm stamp
of the mapletree swatting
another inevitable morning.
Maybe Daylight
is just another meter I’m forgetting.
Everything is art if you turn it on its belly
andstart
again.
My son taught me that. With stacks. And Stacks.
Of print order slips. And homework. He avoids
making eye contact with.
So, instead
—he draws the same line a hundred
times, but can’t get it
to adjust.
That’s too small—he erases
and redraws
the exact same one
He does this several times/ before flinching:
There. He/lies: That’s better.
I hold my arms out and ask
the sun to feed me, too, but
I can’t adjust my lines, either.
my neighbors ask what kind of yoga you call that and i ask how their children are doing in school
and we sway our heads nervously and no one can figure out the space of times like these or
is that just me/ us?
The questions
shake and fall around us
like leaves or stars, but it’s
Sunday morning
in the muddy spring
and I tell
MySon this
is how we are free
my wide palms, my wild fingers
teach him something, about space
that
frustrates him.
AJ Wolff is a queer single mother, feminist, poet (she/her/hers). Her work is published in Rising Phoenix Review, L'Éphémère Review, Rust + Moth, Burning House Press, Riggwelter, and other generous presses.
Twitter: @AJBigbadWolff