The first time I left home was before I was born.
I was barely formed. A scrap. A sample, at best.
I was more my mother than me, then,
I think. We can’t remember.
The plane lifted my mother’s
body lifted mine
from all the earth from all
the earth her family’s bones from all
her brothers from the bed
her mother died in the spoons
in the kitchen the earthen pots for stew clams the black birds
blue-tipped wing birds the bowls of cherries the fence
wearing snow feathers the guitar in the trees a red bathing suit
These are not my memories.
The first time I had them I was a scrap.
A pre-heart. I followed her into the air.
I swear. We don’t remember how
it happened. It happened. We left,
were lifted, and then
I left. And left, and left.