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.