how many things do we do
to cover up the last thing we did?

this poem, the next poem
all poems. poems carry joy

as far as a newborn elk
carries her father’s antlers

i want to be a bison clearing snow
i want to be a bison clearing

abandoned cars off the interstate
i want to lead with my face

and leave trails made by it
sometimes it feels like my face

is way out in front of me. like
there are pictures of me everywhere

a nightmare i’m sure I had
when i was younger, before

the world changed. there i am again
blowing smoke out of my nose

always the one eye
out the side of my head. there are

times when i have seen myself
and looked significantly older

times when others have seen me
and said i haven’t changed

what will i do with a kid? i hope
she is the fastest in her class. so

she can go. she must go far enough
that things regrow

before turning back. in a meadow
the herding animals gather

we begin the slick exchange
of doing over, genetics

passed like promises
under a table. four good legs, heart

history, blood history, the history
of grass regrowing, not regrowing

if we have a kid, will it really be
unable to stand? will it be

unable to run immediately
if it needed to?