outside is an august leaf all crumpled dry shivered but has a breath of june.
dead ready to be dead dog done.
singSING that i don't-what-do-i know. HOURS.
to map sunrises...one day I will tell my daughter to touch herselfto map sunrises... by this-epiphany
before she ever lets a man do it for her, to learn
her body-secrets and the shape of pleasure. I will
tell her that San Francisco always keeps your heart.
that her skin is a blank canvas, that hair grows,
the value of the right kind of disrespect. that the older
we get, the more we need the people who knew us
when we were young. I will tell my daughter
to give away the secrets that keep her up at night,
and that there is never a wrong time to love someone,
but sometimes a wrong way. I will teach my daughter
to travel without makeup; that sometimes forever means
morning and sometimes the ends of the earth means
Africa or one city over. that it's okay to be afraid of
I will tell my daughter that life is teetering across
the bridge, that the panic building in her chest is okay;
that good love is waiting on the other side; that better
love is holding her hand; and that the best love is her own
voice in the back of her mind, saying "