13 going on 30

the questions begin before the

womb and continue in perpetuity,

like brazen-string confetti in

an infinite sand storm;

 

ever colorful, ever messy, open-

ended wanderings, wondering — who am I?

how did I get here? where am I going?

why is the sky blue? when will I know?

 

words directed at no one and every one,

belted out into the night, up against the

pelt of longing stars — shooting back down

and into us like missile wishes:

 

wanting to know, to be known,

to see what others see when they

look at me; to crack the mysteries

of the two-way looking glass,

 

the four pulsing chambers,

the four chords pulling us

into the stubborn harmony

of our dissonant selves.

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