Migration
From the book Alive In These Woods
Just look at the Monarch butterfly
who veers to the east for miles
on its migratory path
as if the massive mountain that scientists believe
existed millennia before
were still there.
For us, the mountain does not exist
because we cannot see it—
I am reaching for a book—no,
I am reaching
for a brush to run through my grandmother’s hair
when she was just a child, fresh from her bath—
Each time I lift a fork to my lips
who else’s hunger am I
feeding? Who else’s fervor slides
my palm along your muscled thigh
as though it were a fertile field
that needs tending?