Reid@YWP

You are not a number. 
You are not a letter. 
You are not something that can be
 measured 
on a scale 
with a beginning 

My childhood home is filled with plants,

plants that we never water

but are somehow still alive.

Its island is littered with junk mail,

different types of olive oil,

stray flakes of salt,

Never forget this moment my child, the moment you began to feel,  

The moment you first felt alive. 

It was night, 

If you wrap your hand around your mother's wrist 

your fingers will touch. How 

do you come to terms with that? How 

do you learn that your father's shoulders 

event horizon–

boundary of a black hole beyond which not even light can escape–

a point of no 

return 

so imagine, my dear, a color 

that is not a color 

Somewhere outside of Philadelphia,

there is a small island in a pond shaped like a boomerang.

When I tilt my chin to the heavens,

I wonder which foolish god

threw it to this barren part of earth?