By C. O’Sullivan Green

Learning the swoop of a lowercase a,
an egg with an axial tilt, tail that could
wag or stand on end.

The school bus arriving for the first time,
coming from an unknown place, driven
into the nebulous world.

Being small enough to be uprooted
and repotted.

Compounding educations, division,
language, and time—how sixty can be
as remote as seventeen.

That mercurial metal, the trust-fall,
which can support or fail with
equal surprise.

Seeing animals I couldn’t take in, but that I
hoped would escape to find me in my backyard.

The evolving and lengthening definition
of consequence, how far is too far,
in distance as well as boundaries.

The succession of small
choices in file that loll
around the corners of days:

will I go down the driveway
on my skates,

can I say a swear
to ask what it means,

how much
of myself will I compromise
to fit in?

Fit in, better translated, to
survive within an ecosystem
(of which there are many,
school, home, peers, self).

Adolescence, the thinning middle age of
childhood. Middle ages of fiefdoms,
of gossip and lore.

The slow and glitch-prone renaissance
of the late teens.

Discovering the machines
and machinations of industry,
its comforts and unregulated
sins.

The pain of learning how to yearn
and how to become.

Living the unknown answer
to the question that is your life.

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C. O’Sullivan Green is a writer who is interested in small moments that be-come pivotal in showcasing the scope of human experience. She received her Master’s degree in English Literature with a concentration in Creative Writing from Wayne State University in Detroit, and she works as a copywriter doing automotive advertising.