what is it you plan to do
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Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash What if it is wild, but not precious? A landfill of used needles void of the liquids that saved us and then didn't Wiping the butt of your loved one over and over, more times a day than anyone says I love you The floaters in your eyes hissing like snakes What if it is precious, but not wild? Sun on skin as you lay atop a nylon sleeping bag the summer that you, a baby counselor, learn that some children do, in fact, run into the woods at night, contrary to what you were promised— but at that moment it is not night, and you have finally showered and closed your eyes and the kids are playing close by their words indistinguishable, but light What if there is not one, but many? All the do-overs The first days of sobriety The $20 bills rolled like a Taki in pockets The pages ripped from a diary The first days of the rest of our lives, plural