To The Girl Who Mistakes Family For Reunion

Is your constantly hiking a way of saying
I would rather be anywhere
than at this kitchen table, staring into your eyes,
rather move through forests
with four found men than face you,
sister, at this reunion? I wouldn't understand,
would I: safe artist in the gridded city,
far from your cliffs & campfires. Still,
I sit at the opposite end of this table,
blowing a cup of tea. Rosemary
grows in our father's garden
where we once dug, long before
the battle between skyscraper & tree,
when we were two girls, only,
running inside the colonial house,
stealing cookies, building libraries,
chopping off doll hair, chucking
small friends out windows
for the simple thrill of retrieval—

Poem was originally published in Prairie Schooner. Reprinted with the permission of the author. All rights reserved.