When I re-imagine an origin story

it looks like this
an accent, a pink tie, a hand hold, a spark;
why is it we focus on beginnings
for our students we take a cd-rom
fill it with soil and they quake
over the quick growth of a lentil seed.
It is the roots, underneath molten detritus
twisting out wild things
like stories seeking room to grow.
I have a friend, she is a gardener
her name is Yiddish for matchmaker
and the smile that originates
sparks her entire being, an inner light;
I mention you often if only to more logically
accept out pairing,
hearing myself phonetically sound out
how we came and continue to be
to make something real I can only touch
through fingers that count out
the times I have seen your face,
crows feet that list the times I’ve
touched your neck,
a shoebox of envelopes
that dictate six years of writing
between the lines;
but my matchmaker never talks about herself,
only when prompted to benefit others
and I wonder what it feels like
to be so aware of one’s fingers, crows feet,
shoeboxes
to never need to count them.
I go inside my head
and practice being tender;
my inner light is not the moon
or a flashlight or even a match
but still you manage to see it,
to enlighten words and
reiterate, I hear you.
Roots are shaped like this: a pen, an ear, a prompting
acts of faith
planting alphabet seeds
harvesting a future.

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Apprentice Editor: Carrie Marzo / Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Vineet Johri / Pixoto