sorry not sorry
That I took an extra candy from the office bowl, leaving butterscotch and peppermint.
That when I spoke to the rabbit at the wild strawberry patch, I did so in a baby voice
I normally loathe. That I snapped a sprig of thyme into a pair of eyebrows,
just for the photograph. That I didn’t read all the sad poetry in that
expensive literary magazine I subscribe to. That I slipped over the gate that warned
”Do not enter.” That I need room to dance. That I stay a little outside conversations.
That I still believe I will find my lost boot the next time I drive through Minnesota.
That I didn’t finish that lunch in my grandmother’s Florida kitchen 42 years ago.
That I left. That I stayed. That when I tell the truth, it can be hard as cold plums.
That I still say goodnight to my dead father. That I pretend he’s answering back.