My song is snow in March,
in May. My song is eighty degrees
the next day. My song is, I couldn’t decide
what to get you, so here, everything.
My song, the sky
over Amherst, Massachusetts.
My song goes, Happy birthday,
Emily Dickinson. My song goes on
field trips to Emily’s house & books
& dress & funky gift
shop & tour guides who once
worked for the post office
& now work for the light, her mind.
My song wants to stand as tall,
as brave as a former postal worker
standing in the middle of Emily’s room
& singing, The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
But my song is a different
selection, my soul wants
to open the glass
sliding door of the kitchen
of my parents’ house
outside Boston, where we moved,
where they are now,
most likely, in the middle of making soup
with fish balls, & fried rice
with leftover everything.
My song can hear my parents’ laughter,
their shoulders bumping as they work
the stove, every burner on, conjuring
Friday night dinner.
My song hears my two brothers,
home from college, sliding
slipper-footed into the kitchen
& hungry, my song
misses them, my song wants
to say, I know I haven’t called,
to say, I’m still angry,
but should call.
My song wants my brothers
to know, I’m still angry, but not with you,
you who gave me the gift
of a shrug, of saying, That’s great,
when I told you
about the man I love.
My song is the way we jumped
right back to a brutal round
of Uno, & I was too astonished,
too glad for you both
to even try saving myself.
& my song is, I still love
our parents. & my song knows
they are not my only
family. But I do, I miss the five-part
howl-screech of our laughter
around the kitchen table,
how crowded we make it,
how we’ll never get
a bigger table, how I am
singing, Pick up,
pick up, I am calling,
calling you—