One of these days, I really want to write a good poem about chosen family. I had hoped this would be it, but I don’t think it works very well, and I need to figure out a better approach.
25 September 2018, in Washington, DC
Family is like a tapestry:
some people inherit theirs,
and some people weave their own,
and far too many make do with none.
The first of these isn’t open to me,
and the last, I fear more than death.
I try to use my friends as pegs
on which to fasten the the warp.
But even as I try to string the weft,
I find that some have vanished,
and others come loose, and soon
the work has come apart in my hands.
So I start again, and again,
but nothing stays in place.
And I worry that soon I’ll have nothing
but a sad tangle of loneliness.