Today is a day of false starts: burnt eggs, expired yogurt, the insides of my mother being pulled out of her. My brain got itself lost, and I’m not asking for it back. I don’t ask my mother if she wants those parts of her back, but I imagine pieces of her stumbling around town with a shovel, planting a seed and growing a mountaintop.
I am lost in a city, waiting for a forest to find me, dreaming of being stuck in a kiss so wet it makes the moon blush. I am explaining love in multiplication to a cloud so low it is calling itself fog. No bridge ever jumped off itself, I tell it. Never not rest your head in a lap of mistletoes.
Find me in a field marked Field, tying your shoes you always forget to put on. My mother is next to me, three thousand miles away, planting seeds and waiting, waiting, waiting for a mountaintop that will never come.
C.J. Miles lives in Iowa with his wife. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Forage and Eunoia Review. He can be found on Twitter at @cjmilespoet