Part 54

What if — I hold the words like a pashmina
cloak to hide my nakedness from the mirror.
It is a trick. What if — no longer a question,
no longer an argument: a finality, a surrender,
a road that has taken too long. What if a
father thought to hold my hand. What if a
mother knew how to care. What if there was
always a way to begin again. What are the
odds it would have still led to this moment,
to this poem? What if the sea came looking
for the river. What if the river was dry? What
if the rain had a choice? What are the odds
a home would still be home? That home? What
if forgiveness was taught in the same cadence
as multiplication tables. Twelve times nine.
Four times twenty-seven. Three times broken.
Five times whole. Life by rote. What if birth
came with a warranty. What if death were
optional. What if families were made like
solar systems: orbiting around a single
shining light, till the end. What if the naked
person in the mirror is actually someone
else? What if this poem had a fucking choice.