THE SHAPE OF THINGS
After the weekend by the fire pit,
on a no-kids-no-partners-reunion
smoke still on our hoodies
damp bathing suits in plastic bags
the end of summer on our
cheeks, noses, shoulders
she sends the question in a text
“What can you let go of?’
All 6 of us, friends from college
still trying to understand love
days ago, around the campfire
now our heads bow, again,
to the glow of our phones.
The easier said answers come quick
“old habits”, “dwelling”, “my grip”
“the wish that people would be
different than they are”
she texts her answer last:
“the shape of things.”
I can almost hear our collective sigh.
Like bubbles blown into this life
glistening bodies of air,
of water, unable to cling
to the tightness in our chests
to the stiffness in our shoulders
when we remember this
the pain and beauty of what is
is not ours to mold.
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