The first time I smelt smoke was the day I was born.

The one thing that we all have in common

is that none of us asked for it, so I wailed.

The primality of confusion.

There is a memory of another burst of ash

and then another and another and another.

Learning to place one foot in front of the other

or how to speak aloud

and the appropriate way to meet another person’s lips.

The jarring nature of how to braid a piece of hair

and do a times table and when to ask God a question.

The jumping to live

just to land on a patch of grass that is kindling.

Is there anything to be learned without fire?

Without tripping or spitting up or gambling?

I am a skidded knee healing just to break open, again.

Did you know that there is a

send-and-receive service in the Atlantic,

as if a post office with a very complicated return policy?

An optical illusion where the

waves seem to be moving forward but

they move backward underneath.

Shallow and also deep,

severe but somehow calling.

It is brusk and classically beautiful.

A strength of mythic proportions

with the surface elegance of a woman who

likes to pride herself on never having lifted a finger.

Like the first time,

you saw a person

that you couldn’t tell was a man or a woman,

you were little and maybe standing in a bus.

The gentleness in the fullness of their cheeks

and the strength in their jaw paired with

a haircut you’ve seen on very young men

and also older women.

So you find yourself staring

until your mother nudges you to look away.

Learning with time,

that maybe there are questions

that are not for you to answer.

Such as when water is so hot, it feels cold.

A memory so joyful, that it leaks out as tears.

The painful gasping in laughter.

A scream rifling through the air

hitting the ear at an angle

where you have to check that it’s not of terror,

just to see two teenage girls jumping up and down.

Like the bobbing of waves.

Or that one time you nearly drowned,

a rip tide pulling you under but through the tumble

shock became glory.

And you felt fear feed itself to awe.

As your body breaks up for breath.

Individual pieces of sand

levitating around and moving as if mystified.

So when you surfaced; sputtering and nearly crying

and somehow laughing

you didn't know how to tell

the concern in your father’s face;

that you kind of wanted to do it again

but knew you shouldn’t.

So sometimes,

when your anger is wearing your sorrow

you think of doing somersaults with your eyes open

underneath a windswell on a barrier beach.

Opportunity is the bilingual dictionary on my mother’s windowsill.

Her reciting the names of presidents in her candied accent.

The flow of imaginary sounds

and the concentration held in the rigidness of her eyes.

Her finger following the words, a pencil rested at her temple.

Freedom has rooted itself in the calluses on my father’s hand I outline with my index finger.

It leaves the house smelling of cologne and comes back bathed in salt.

It’s a blister in a place you didn’t know could blister

and head nods of feigned understanding.

Happiness has never seen the movie you grew up on.

Makes long-distance calls and waves the charges.

Peers from inside of your mind

and whispers over your internal monologue.

Reaching and clawing but it knows not to beg.

Honor takes a county bus at 9 a.m.

It learned to dance standing on steel toe boots in a handmade costume.

Sitting on its father's lap as he operates a forklift.

Clapping at a mid-40s trade school graduation.

A plane ride you don’t remember.

A dialect all its own.

The midway point between twelve or more sharp vowels and 5 long ones.

It's the knot in a tug-of-war

between a thank you letter the length of a fútbol field

and an unsigned confession of guilt.