What’s the Point of Shaving Legs Anyway?

Forsythia comes to Massachusetts 
like it always does:

in between the sugar maple
and the neighbor’s parked truck.

Never could I stomach
the yellow.

Children of invention:
you’ll be jittery from the adrenaline.

A diver at the platform, arms stretched––
ready to plunge

into my outstretched lungs. This breath 
is made of roots

sighing and singing and sleeping. 
A footprint from the treetops.

In first grade I learned
the water in my kitchen tap

was what the dinosaurs drank. 
How peculiar.

I am most comfortable 
when in constant motion––

on the highway
over water, stomping grounds.

Tendrils. Locks. The harbor opens 
to a tiled tunnel

that uncovers wounds as they wash through: 
the elbow, the knee, the transition places.

Bends I love.