Origin Story
From the book Alive In These Woods
I was four or five, bored by the dull terrain
of my body, those heavy afternoons
when I was told to “nap.” Through my flowered
curtains, tilting shadows of branches
reminded me of my own slender
shadow on the sand, looking through the sheet
of water as a wave drew back, seeing the dark swirls
of indigo mussel shells. And then just after,
the bed of still wet sand would flare. Or this
is what I remember seeing in my mind
one of those long afternoons,
when the back of my right thumb and forefinger
opened the soft folds,
and my middle fingertip found
the small mound of you that first time—
as though I had heard singing
in a far-off grove, thrilled,
approached and heard the new
clearer notes, undistorted by distance
or the thick weave of branches.