Somewhere, as I watch Prince
sing Motherless Child on my phone,
it's my mother's birthday—both exist
completely inside
the song, I wouldn't change a thing.
Flowers run through their veins now,
so many it seems that inside each
is a garden, even if no one will ever
wander them. Each body can hold
so much, simply to stand requires
a million constant & nearly im-
perceptible adjust-
ments between falling &
catching yourself as you fall. Look at
how his body moves, both inside
each note & as he creates each
note . . . Can I play my guitar?
he asks. We know, we know, we know
the song won't last forever . . .
