Mid-Thirties Square Dance
Walking home God peeled a major eucalyptus to the ground.
Genuinely uncertain, he asked
Can a life be undone
Yes I said. You don’t say no to God.
A tendon in my left foot once ran
all the way up my leg to the knee, but where it stops now
no doctoring hands can tell.
At thirty-four I have ticked every box I set out to.
My mistake was thinking I could be loved
in little white squares.
I fold corners of pages I try to read as I walk.
They bounce off me like a metal sun.
After dropping my daughter off
I am passed by those who can walk without thinking.
God,
since before I was born your trees have pushed up
under my soles
deforming my arches.
How steep my urge for awe grows.
My daughter echoes
See you after she passes the preschool gate
and cannot see me.
A variety of tree types do-si-do around me.
Still human in appearance to others
I try not to show I am already outlived
standing very still on my threadbare unmystical tendon
with what awe actually is.
