From my mother, the eyes of a waltzing woman—

corners to be negotiated with care, on tiptoe at times,

occasionally turning up the music, tuning in to her dancing days

before rock’n roll, invoking pasts

                                                       of piano, sax and drums.

From father’s side, I swerved with the curve of horses

blinked through a long line of trainers, riders, and pacers

who knew their place.

                                    Horses that could walk extravagant,    

that could canter into the journey, find their own way home.

My parents came together across tables of sheep and wheat,

alive to the dance of growing and harvesting.

She had her garden—it was as if she could always

carry it with her, along with keys to the family.

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