opened the curtains of the room

my niece and I shared, I’d carry her

outside toward the only entertainment

for a hundred miles: a chubby-cheeked squirrel

eating pinecones like corn on the cob.

A tree frog with its feet suction-cupped

to the living room window that had been too clean

for the robin to see. How strange

it was then, to watch a thing be killed

by something being too clean.

Throughout the summer, whenever the nest

of baby wrens screamed with excitement

over their mother’s return, I’d hold my niece

tighter. What grief looked like on a baby,

I knew I wasn’t strong enough to see.

To distract her, I’d rip the hat off my head

and place it on hers, which would lodge a smile

across her holy pudgy face.

She looks like a dinner roll with eyes,

I’d holler to my mother, then snap

a photo to send to my sister, praying

the breadcrumb trail of cuteness would lead her home.

There are a thousand places you could have found me,

Poppy Seed, but I like to think this was when—

when I took the hat off my head

and placed it on hers. I like to think you waited

until you saw her head was covered

to throw yourself from that tree,

knowing your body was a tiny grenade,

and soldiers who don’t want to be soldiers

have control over almost nothing

except for their aim.

Fourteen years have passed since then.

My sister is sober and happy and a porch light

wherever she goes.

My niece is the tallest kid in her class

in every way there is to grow.

Together they take photographs

that are breadcrumbs that lead me home,

and when I visit, I bring you with me

in every muscle and bone.

You are my blood now.

Which is another word for family—

which is the least tiny gift

my life has known.

AFTER THE BREAK-UP, OUR TANDEM BIKE SPEAKS:

To say it was anyone’s fault

would be to misunderstand

the headwind that every love faces.

How quickly a halo can bust a hole

and go flat. One rock

bottom and there is nothing left

but something to be replaced.

Call it jealousy, but couldn’t

it also be called faith? To believe

there is always something

better than you out there?

People, without knowing, choose

the hardest gears. Harder and harder

until they stop moving forward.

Stop moving forward and it’s impossible

not to crash. I know I’m not built

to believe in anything but forever.

I know what I call freedom,

others call a chain. It’s true that everything

about me says, Please stay together—

you can say it’s just how I was made.

But I’m certain it’s more about what I’ve seen,

and most people don’t leave

because the pedals have turned into love-me-

nots—that’s just how they spin

the story to not have to grieve

a more impossible thing: that history

didn’t stay in its lane. That the tiniest dents