how long ago, it seems, i started out

Family is sometimes a question.

In these rare cases

my mother is the answer--my mother

with her pesto chicken pumpkin

My mother

dainty and perfumed as a soft,

gloved hand. My mother

so dear and lovely

looking out of the window at the weather

then telling Nessa:

Put your sweater on or else the cold

will catch you! It doesn’t happen

that way--I wanted to say,

stooped over cereal, counting milk

bubbles, to make sure I could still

count. I had lost it all

so many years ago--but I lost

the number of years

and now I never glance back. This

is the only form of time travel
I know:

Looking out for a moment unto

the thin fog and feeling

an eye of light, a clean origami

flower, unfold inside me

and present itself as

Family, the answer to that

long, sweeping question:

Mother? Family.

That is all I know.