How am I only fourteen, a child, a girl?
Heart palpitations and dizziness and slick hands.
Micah takes the kettle from the stove, stirs water into hot cocoa powder,
cloyingly sweet on my burnt tongue
Anything but. My fingers gnaw at the edges of vintage patches
– from Yosemite, Hawaii, Niagra Falls,
places I’ve never been –
sewn onto Gramma’s old Levi’s. The Sunday edition
of the New York Times lays on the kitchen table, crossword half-
finished in indigo ink.
That’s the way this wheel keeps working out that’s the way –
but why does no one else realize that everything always has changed?
(with thanks to John Mayer)