Please.
Can’t this be enough?
These words?
I mean them with all my heart.
101.
once
In another poem
this one by Ross Gay
his niece, who is young, cries
because she had a butterfly friend she named Emma
who flew away
and the niece never got to say goodbye.
Would it
even help, though,
if they came back so you could?
(say goodbye)
Or would you just hold on hold on hold on
and never ever let go
until
they took you with them.
102.
now
“I know this is gross,” I tell Yolo. Blood drips from my arm onto the seat of the car. Something happened to my leg in the fall that I hope is temporary. My head still hurts in the back, a low, dull ache from where it hit the ground. But the message is up. We’ve done what we can.
“For now,” I tell Yolo, “all we have to do is get back home.”
Yolo blinks at me from the backpack.
“Hey,” I tell Yolo. “Thanks for sticking with me. Thanks for not running off when you had the chance.”
103.
now
Yolo and I finally pull into my driveway. There should be people sleeping, living in every house I pass.
Instead, for now, there is just me. And water, stone, trees. The town. Me, the only girl in it. The only person here.
