When grandson scrapes his leg on a barbed wire fence,
love smells like blood and alcohol and two Sponge Bob
bandages used to gently cover the cut and calm his fears.
When my sisters and I return from our mother's funeral,
loves sounds like the twenty-four cannonballs you make
into the neighbor's backyard pool and the squeal of
our children's laughter.
Love feels like crossing a marathon finish line
for the first time. Sore, exhausted, exquistely happy,
and seeing in your face the reality of a piggy-back ride
