LALENE (FOR KINZUA)

I like to think of you out on dates
in New York City, running into
other dates, also out on dates.

My dispatch is:
here it’s not
quite that.

Though yesterday I molded
a shallow pumpkin scone, yellow
instead of orange,

heard old forgotten harmony
as the flour fell
the sift.

The house felt like
a ship about to topple, bamboo at
the window, blowing,

even as my mom tried out
something on piano,
first time since I’ve been home.

I read your story early this morning,
one long breath
seasoned with your signatures.

At some point past, I know
we all had a picture
of how we would become,

tiger girl running towards
the campfire, adults in houses,
full on light and yogurt.