(with lines from W.S. Merwin)

Where has it gone
never was there one step backward,
though there were moments I considered a U-turn—
years of stepping to the daily step,
work, kids, conspiracies of my body, and my mother’s mind stuttering
while my father moaned stunned syllables of pain.
Shit years, hard as schist years, Sisyphus-halfway-up-the-mountain years.
You, sunk into your calculations.
I learned to translate long silences into my mother tongue.
A man called out to me one day on Spruce Street:
“Excuse me did you drop a feather?”
as if he knew I always meant to be a bird,
I could live a different life, with airy bones and endless air.
Since I’m being honest, I almost stopped to check if
I had dropped a feather from my wing.

I had dropped a feather from my wing,
since I’m being honest. I almost stopped to check if
I could live a different life with airy bones and endless air.
As if he knew I always meant to be a bird
—“Excuse me, did you drop a feather?”—
a man called out to me one day on Spruce Street.
I learned to translate long silences into my mother tongue.
You sunk into your calculations.
Sisyphus-halfway-up-the-mountain years, schist years, shit years
while my father moaned stunned syllables of pain,
work, kids, conspiracies of my body, and my mother’s mind stuttering.
Years of stepping to the daily step.
Though there were moments I considered a U-turn,
never was there one step backward.
Where has it gone?