orange

the time before when my mother and me were at the parade, the time when there was the bomb and the shockwave destroyed the buildings, the time when I was left in the stairwell . . .

the time when I learned to spell my name, the time of running, the time of forgetting, the time when possibility gathered around my fate . . .

the lost and the bruised, the splendor, the pancake breakfast happiness, the faster than safe, the possible again -- ringed like saturn -- hanging out there waiting . . .

the lines of men, the barking dogs and the betrayal of mother to daughter, father to country, the failure and longing for all of it to end . . .