The ride to girl scout camp

made me curse my father’s

pickup truck and its back-seat

boardroom, two child-sized

fold-out chairs made for knee

-to-knee confrontation,

which is exactly what happened

when Naomi’s lunch got

the better of her, the windy

road bonding our sneakers

together through a fluid

no longer hers but shared,

sparking in me a fear of

losing what is only partway

worked through, I started

colouring in the broadest

strokes, compulsively saving

my computer documents

lest some unexpected turn

pull from me like a magician’s

fist around a chain of scarves.

It wasn’t until I hit send

on the separation document

and painted the porcelain

a bile and egg-yolk blond

that I saw what I wanted

out of the rest of my life

was exactly a lemony dawn

dripping through fingers

into another day, and another,

slipping away when you feel

like you were just getting started.