Why now am I thinking about my mother
holding me in the bathtub, afterbirth 
floating to the surface of the water, my father’s hand 

reaching for me, as he sits beside her 
on the blue tile floor. How can I imagine this 
and not feel the blood moving between us. 

Why, after everything has happened, 
and I stand, watching the fading light soften 
the endless canyons before me, do I want to return 

to the moment my mother pulls into the driveway, 
the crowd of strangers in the blank afternoon, 
the policemen who tell her, Mrs. Dhyne, your husband… 

how she dropped to her knees
as a neighbor dragged me across the street, 
saying over and over, He’s in a better place now.