I’m supposed to be sliding
my numb toes into boots,
zipping them up my calves
to bring the mail out. Three
lemons rot in a gray bowl.
I used to write letters to both
sets of grandparents, my pilot
grandfather responding sometimes.
During my tomboy phase,
he would try to teach me tennis
in a park in Vermont—a hornet
pausing around me while I swung,
the brim of my Bulls cap
shadowing my eyes. The apostrophe
of a stinger would always find my brother,
his ankles—how he would run away