To My Nineteen-Year-Old Self

I see you still, in your tube top
and track shorts; dark hair
long and middle-parted.
Sunbathing, glistening
on the lawn, humming
Carly Simon: Anti-ci-pa-tion
is making me wait,
keeping me waiting. . . .
all the futures
still in line to claim you–
Me, here now
within reach of you,
nested within
every inseparable self.

***

My Mother’s Obit Wasn’t Long

In the end, it needed no listings
of degrees achieved,
or paragraphs of
committee memberships.
No need for travel taken
or nameable pursuits.

She made everything simple
for us, to name of her
what we knew—her calling:
kindness and no yelling
she’d say with a shy giggle
as if she knew it may not
sound like enough,
the whole wide world of her.

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