Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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The bicycle moved because his hand was gone. I shouted when I noticed,
She did not keep me small. She kept the door: oiled the hinge,
He taught her how to leave: check the tires, carry water,
His hands were not a wall. They were a railing: there when the stairs went dark,
I spent years teaching my son which road to take, how to watch the weather,
May the leaves teach release without calling every loss beautiful. May the field after harvest
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