It started with handfuls of rain
and breast in October. It started in a doorway,
someone was 17, but most of us
weren’t born yet.
It made our mothers buy hair dye
and finger soft fruit at the market.
It made our fathers
Isn’t it something,
that here we are now
rubbing on each other’s
bellies and bottoms
slipping on and off
of mother, lover, and father.
We fill each other’s mouths
with the pulse and promise
of art, music, and living the way
we always thought that we should.
What I’m saying is,
it all makes sense to me.
* text first published in Getting There, 2008
*Photograph found and coveted. My birth mother Regina, and father Kevin. Circa 1975, California.