It isn’t a word I’ve given much thought to,
and I can’t recall the last time I spoke it—
For so long, I’ve been the mother of boys
who crack baseballs and jump off roofs
and never once did their joy become
a wheel of limbs and banner of hair.
Today is my mother’s birthday, and my son’s.
Outside the pizza parlor
two teenage girls without an audience of boys
did cartwheels in the parking lot
and I smiled as I said the word out loud
to myself – only the pizza as my audience
in the passenger seat; a carryout order
destine to be devoured back at home,
like this life, like these years that have spun me
upside down as I gained momentum.
Finally slowing down, slow motion now,
I watch the girls and become myself again,
remembering how good it tasted
to feel capable of anything,
sure in this inspired moment, that I still am.