I.

They’re a grove of redwoods 

overlooking the coast, rooted

to a hillside

in the northwest corner of the United States.

They used to call me flighty.

Now they don’t call me anything,

not once a week to catch up, or

once a month to say hey, or

once a year on my birthday. 

I used to get the busy signal and 

the answering machine, but 

I’ve given up now, too. 

The child shouldn’t have to 

try to make things work.

So I moved on.

If my parents are Sequoias sempervirens,

then I am Diomedea exulans—

 wandering albatross

soaring

over the sea.

Besides,

there’s something unholy 

lurking in that grove.