the last time i was at this
airport it was goodbye, or
was it Lethbridge? you sent
a box of thrift store clothes
to my house, along with your
purple snowboard hat
(the one you said i couldn't have)
and a photograph of the mountain it
took seven hours to conquer and at the top
the chipmunk ate from your palms.
we don't expect perfect things to end.
if they end, they weren't perfect.
but it was.
seeing the white tops so close, i hear
the old familiar moan; i am home, i am home
another hour yet to the prairies to watch
my friend take off her clothes. the day
before yesterday i felt like a shirt
ripped in two. these last couple of birthdays
have been nothing but bad news. like
the safflower rows, i grow up and up,
our petaled heads howling to the sun
like little yellow wolves. my mouth stuck with tape
i wait to take shape.