for M.M.

You are in Phoenix
drinking vodka from a plunger,

golf-carting from bar to bar,
and your brother is slurring

his way towards a hefty woman.
When I was a young woman I wanted

to pilot B-52s so that I seemed
as strong as I imagined myself to be—

Strength seems to make things buoyant.

Earlier today, your brother posted a photo
of trees strewn down a golf course fairway—

your father standing between gnarled branches.
I love your father, sitting at the breakfast bar

of the house you grew up in, asking me
how I turned out okay, accepting “luck”

as my answer. I imagine you’ll gray
and belly like your father—I imagine

me loving you that way.