It is a widely known fact that sunflowers bend towards the sun
but it is also a fact that when they can’t find it,
they turn towards one another.
As my friend bikes across the entire city so we can trade books
and sit six feet apart,
I’m sure we do the same exact thing.
In a pandemic, there are still poetry readings
and celebrations.
In this poem, I am celebrating
every way I have so far this Spring, this summer, this fall, nearly this winter
and in this poem, I am doing it all at the same time.
I am slow dancing to records in my dining room
still in bed on a picnic blanket
in the park, baking
while I facilitate restorative justice work
I am smelling every rose bush I walk by
and I’m performing right now while playing
video games
in doc martens
stomping
on the crunchiest leaf pile I can find.
My dad and my partner are in the background
crying every time they hear this poem
as I video chat with my therapist in the bubble bath
where I have just realized you can use tupperware containers
to make floating snack trays.
I am hiking, staring at the ocean
I have spent hours driving to
for this simple moment of thinking
I am so ephemeral
and timeless
when my partners’ smallest human affirms my gender-fluidity
by saying, “I’m 50% boy and 50% girl,
so I guess… we’re 50 twins.”
and feeling so whole
when his oldest and I make crafts
or dance together
when she holds my hand unexpectedly
while I’m opening care packages from my parents
and freshly staining my shower curtain with hair dye
in the middle of a living room photo-shoot
binging Netflix
sipping coffee
in professional clothes
from only the waist up
watching someone’s toddler or baby sister
run
unabashedly
through the zoom call I fell in love on
knowing
there are so many ways
to be held
to hold
to turn towards
even now.