by Willie VerSteeg
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I’m adjusting to the way lizards
scutter up bricks. Mother-in-law
points out a locust by the pool. My urge
is for nothing to be new, for everything
to have always been: towel ever-warm in the sun,
light lustering from the water to the stucco.
She says my stepson looks like me,
that I could pass. No distant past
or past distance. When he goes to feed
the pond fish I watch from the window. Imagine
if he fell in, I say, and she tells me he did, once.
Willie VerSteeg is a poet from San Diego, CA currently living in Columbus, OH with his wife and two sons. His work has recently appeared in Ninth Letter, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. Find him on Twitter @willieversteeg.