I've been writing some poetry over the last year, keeping a new year's resolution to write 1 poem a month. It's been a nice, quiet, non-messy divergence from my usual visual art. In honor of Nana's 98th (!!) birthday today, here's one.
Intersection
Boundaries
are what the child knows.
That you can start to cross the street before the car has passed
is what the mother knows.
That you can again find a center of balance
is what the man on the bike knows.
At the intersection is a doctor’s office.
My grandmother, ninety-seven, is inside
filling out a medical questionnaire.
When she comes to the part requesting
the medical history of her parents and
grandparents, she laughs, making even the clerk look up.
That it can demand stillness
is what the intersection knows.
But that there is no other intersection for miles
is what the street cannot know,
which is what the child knows,
is what the mother knows,
is what the man on the bike,
dropping hands from handlebars,
knows.
