By Dawn Robbins, April 1, 2021

Broke free of “we.”

Four hours, just four, from sculpting parents

And a family extending this way and that

Like the rabbit ears on a black-and-white TV

This side and that,

All at the same time

Volume high.

“Me” stuck between.

 

I flee.

Pause for nothing

Never find Robert Frost’s

Forked road.

Like a skewer,

I dash

Straightaway

Away from pearls and pantyhose,

Sterling silver in a felt-lined box.

Which road leads to “me?”

 

I poke my skewer.

To a Greek Island called Naxos, a farm near Quilcene?

I drive a bus in circles for a living.

Love a man named Alex, then a stranger named Gaby.

And there were others too.

I poke, then stay.

Then seek the next and the next.

 

One winter day on a mountain,

My hair matches the snow

I take off my skis, throw down my poles, gape at grey sky,

A snowflake drifts onto my tongue,

Becomes my tongue.

Tongue and snowflake blend as one like “me’ and “we,”

Twisted rivers on a single map.