July 11, 2016


I was born
in a simpler time,
my memory of arrival
fading like a shed skin,
my new life still soft
to the touch,
though hardening soon
in the desert sun.
I grew up knowing
we could be abandoned,
with clues everywhere,
how we're all just part
of some bigger plan.
I awaken each morning
a newer self,
older, though no wiser
than the day before,
studying my face
in the shaving mirror,
a form of penance
I've been serving
for years.
Before she died,
my mother whispered,
"Where are you,
my beautiful boy?"
Unlike my birth,
I could not
be there in time.
I sat in her stillness
through the night,
walked all the way
to her waiting grave,
guilty as charged
of all my crimes.
We, who have
so little time.