It’s about time
she said
but, absent of tone,
I couldn’t tell if she meant
that finally, god finally,
we were getting somewhere
or
it really is about time
It’s been three years since
I’ve seen my mom
and eight hours since
she’s messaged me
I have a collection of unanswered
electronic messages
stowed like glassware
during the war
It’s been ten years since
I’ve lived with her
a decade spent
raising and lowering flags,
sailing toward Polaris
willfully ignoring that the earth is round
and that eventually, habitually,
I return to my point of departure
always minding the shoals,
always still catching in them
I have written the beginning
of about thirty letters
I can’t get to the end
because I haven’t taught my mouth
yet to speak the unspeakable
and my cursive devolves
into spirals
I can’t help but imagine
a house partially built
by two arsonists. Is it
any wonder there’s still
ash on the ground?
Is anyone surprised
by a persistent smell
of gasoline?
Sometimes,
I write back. I type out my words
with the care of a mortician,
a period at the end of each sentence
a tie around the neck
I generally get this message in return:
I love you
I miss you
It’s about time
It means it has been
years, yes.
It means, it has been
years, of course.
It means, time is something
obligatory
And I nod in agreement,
close the tab,
lower my flag.
musings 
xoxo