His bedtime question. I hear it
as complaint, the adult gripe
in a question’s guise: nothing is possible.
But this is not what he means.
In the ribcage of his bunk slats
he wonders what might live at the bottom of the sea.
A plesiosaur. A boy.
A swimming star with all the fire of Polaris.
He is thinking through the meaning
of the word, its plosive boundaries,
the stories we call laws
abided by his body, which somehow
seems boundless as he grows,
If he kicks, the ball will travel.
If he jumps, he will come down.
Maybe. If something dies
does it stay dead?
Or could a fossil be a message
sounding from the dark, and what does his mother know
What does she believe? If he jumps
will he become
— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 1