Next Stop: Sapporo

I don’t know how to tell my grandma 

I no longer believe in god. She’s 

giving her photos away; dying. 

The scrapbook saved for me is of

her three weeks in Japan with a man

(I think) she should’ve married.

We had great times dancing, she told me, 

and great times in the tub.

Her face in these photos– the look 

in his eyes– I see myself and my own love, 

and close the book, stunned 

by love in a brand new way. Never 

have I seen her so happy in succession

or observed in her unconditional carelessness:

We had a fight one night, so I left the hotel;

so angry, so drunk, so lost. 

Eight kids back home waited for her as she

posed beneath a giant Buddha. These photos 

she kept secret, sacred. Her prized possessions

in my lap. I can whisper to her nothing of 

Heaven. I think I know she’ll go 

back to Japan if she can, and stay. 

ALL THE FIRE HYDRANTS ARE THE COLOR OF PUBLIC SCHOOL HOTDOGS: TO GIRLS THAT READ JOHN KEATS AND CONNECT

That summer I cantered an old horse through fields 

of sunflowers, boots wagging, boots

loose from their stirrups—his name? Was Scout. 

I loved to bathe him, loved to brush 

his caramel fur. He was broken decades ago. Was

old, was slow, yet weaved 

through the maze of golden petals with ease. 

He’s as close to flying as I’ll ever get, I thought,

even after the penultimate dream of my toes 

kissing boughs, tracing treetops 

like cops do to pavement corpses. 

I have no idea if I slept or really saw, and worse! 

It’s all a bit too Romantic. 

As Romantic as being buried in Rome or believing in 

soulmates. Telling secrets to butterflies. 

Having a hunk of a man read to you before bed. 

A nightingale taught me to love. Might’ve been 

another dream. He was stark and ashen, a beak 

aglow in the dark. I heard what Hell is

in his passionate crooning and ducked beneath 

jagged Elmwoods that leapt like lions–left, right, then 

stagnant. Reflecting on it makes me shudder. If my 

chest were ripped open, I’d wager 

my lover's head would be dancing inside my chest. 

I sigh: At least I don’t clutch Rose Quartz.

My Tiger’s Eye instead.