The shape of history

The body I was in was called golden

with edges like driftwood,

smelling of caramel corn and sun,

looking like a shaggy butterfly

with a shaky wing.

I’ve stayed ragged

but processed and contained

like a koosh ball in a bubble gum machine.

My doctor had an old bag

and long beard. He was an impressionist

with a free-form modern sensibility

which made me feel like floating

in a murky pond

afraid of the depths, craving flight.

I sputter when I leave the hills, bits of

color left behind like a jet’s echo.

The shape of history

is a pile of love robed in stark beauty,

long grasses, and a touch of grief.

We become bakers or birds.