Empire! Empire! It Happened Because You Left
in fall, the year you grew to be six feet
i tempered my fear into haste,
a worry that dogged our mother.
she, the baby of three, asked how
so many things could take flight at once.
there are no easy answers, and even thirteen, i
could not think of a sure reply.
at the church where i was baptized,
our father refused to park near the crowd
at that time, i still believed in god, or faeries,
or that the air could catch on fire.
when you and your friends took off on separate routes,
i wanted to follow you.
but our mother said i was not allowed to.
you had not yet learned how to fill such a broad frame.
that winter you said you hated your body,
but when spring came, you'd learned how to speak,
and you moved west
to watch the ocean eat the coast away.
i can still remember that day you left,
thoughts spilling out from my chest,
like, "who will you be when you come back"
or even, "will you come back?"
