began with months inside her belly
becoming a suitcase from the outside
in her one hand.
I suspected, by then, on the other hand, raising a baby doesn't accept
accidents and correction by re-setting, default,
as when on the inside.
She pulled my hinged arm.
Becoming older, the load of baggage
more than once, turns life
inside out, in its wardrobe of places.
I stopped skipping
between any verity and reason, over the rocks
taking flight from any good sense of those colored pajamas days.
Age, itself, doubles in days, into months, then years;
inside and out,
aging upon her face forgets any reason,
until one is the many, the many, one:
the load points that way.
We rested at the curb.
Her and I haven’t made it this far before:
The collection of hopes includes gloves, heavy socks
and birth by default,
unplanned but foretell.
Again, my fingers take hold of the baggage handle she once held
as a child, walking onto the sidewalk,
ignoring the traffic lights.