the width around where my reality ends

is shaped like a birch tree

for better or worse;

the lumbering trunk

is my base

the wispy scraggly branches

are my reach

the roots- quiet, dark, and deep

are my only thoughts of place

.

the rest is sun and breezes

resting on the skin of my children

and the bones of my ancestors

the night squiggled

before my car lights

.

I gripped the wheel

loosely but with prayer

.

the same bit of road

has run the gamut of emotions

.

there was no redemption

among late spring roadkill

.

I thought I was almost there

but I don’t know where I’m going

I can tell by the slope of your shell

our dance would last

beyond moon and crickets.

Turtles move for carrots,

frogs tuck their eyes in the their mouths,

gas prices will never be what they were-

but neither will I.

.

We tried crow yoga

but the bastard birds just waited

until we were in crow pose

then they pecked us in the ass

and stole our keys.

.

I tried to carry tasks like a came

but I got lumpy in all the wrong places.

Now I look to unburden myself

of pride and approval and control

and see if I can still cross the desert.

.

We are legends on our own sofas.

We can tuck our chins into other chins.

We move for rum and pie and watch

as clouds race by.