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You are not my sun  

Nor my moon  

Nor any of my stars. 

To me 

You’re the bend in the Cahaba river  

Where I hid my paddle boat from shouting parents  

And first discovered my boyish insecurity 

Blooming in slow harmony with the water lilies  

You’re the gruff in my childhood preachers voice  

As he shouted at us one Sunday 

To not throw stones at the birds nest  

Cradled in the alcove above the church doors  

You are the glint in my grandmothers eyes 

As she pointed to deer velvet on trees  

And the force in my giggle when I felt it  

Between my child fingers 

You are the leaves of the blueberry bush  

Where my father set our first pet rabbit  

My first friend 

(whose name I cannot remember)  

Free and wild 

You are the spring in my brothers punch  

As he jostled me  

And gave me strength  

While the Telugu refrigerator magnets looked on  

Indifferent to the magnitude of the moment  

You are the shavings of calcium grit  

And the iron in the blood  

That fill my mouth  

When I ritually grind my teeth and bite my tongue  

You are the irregular patterns of jumps I make  

When walking up stairs 

21; and uncertain of how to do so  

Without being embarrassed  

Or feeling watched  

And I am convinced that all the secrets 

Of my south Birmingham childhood  

Have found their way into the soft skin beneath your hair. 

And that I could spend my remaining lifetime  

A  calloused hand pacing the silk meadow of your scalp 

Trying to find them  

But alike them,  

You are distant  

Possibly imagined  

At best a memory  

And without a sense  

Of proper timing, or distinguishing qualities. 

Yours, and no one elses,