I am not the mistakes I’ve made.
nor the plans I’ve laid.
I am not the victories past
nor good jobs done fast.
I am not the butter-brushed bread,
nor the challenge ahead,
I am not the pots I’ve thrown,
not the garments I’ve sewn.

 

I am not the achievements

-weights lifted over my head-

I am not the bereavements

-weights in the heart that embed-

 

I am not the owned nor the owner
of sweet lives surrounding.
Let us each make our sound,
the chorus abounding.

I am not the roles I play when the play unrolls.

I am not the judge nor weigher of souls.

and neither, my love, are you.

 

these things

– all this matter –

are simply evidence of a life
being lived

 

I am memory and hope

I am a never-ending rope

tying water to ashes and back again

and so, my love, are you.

 

in the same way my grandmother, now 20 years gone –
still asks me,
today
– just as clear as day –

“do you love him?”

and, “you’ll be okay.”

and paints toenails with me
on canopied California car aprons,

and washes the beach glass treasures and salty sand dollars

and watches geckos scurry on the rock road divides

the orange tree blooms

her laugh still fills the room.

 

these are the things we are

and always will be

no matter where

no matter with who

no matter without

no matter the matter that falls

 

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