Never Land

Never Land

My father named me for a girl who flies

but wants to be a mother. I practice           

power of launch, eyes skyward, arms out for ballast. Like my mother

the last week of her life, propped in bed

staring at the ceiling: focused. Acceptance is wading in tall grass

barefoot— I was never afraid of snakes

until I saw one swallowing its twin,  

shivering its tail at my flightline. We were living

on an estuary then, woke each day to radios of crab boats trolling:

haze on water too bright to understand,

pollen swirled the surface, clogged the cattails. So many moons

drifted above us in that cove— half-moons, hunters,

moons like teacups pouring secrets heavier than loss. So much I want to be

that girl with a father who requires of his household

less noise.  So much I miss

that mother making the noise. What if

we could see our happiness, as out a train window,

crossroad chugging closer, closer,

suddenly you’re right there in its middle—

then in a flash you’re past, you lean out, look back, focus,

watch it disappear.