you traced the paper cover carefully
the white on blue of Bachman's book
thin and worn and probably stolen
cut the gull from cloth of ivory but
barely recognizable, you gave up
trying to stitch Jon to your old jeans
the blue-sky denim of a young girl
lost in the patchwork of the 1970's
who would find that most aspirations
like this one, girl, would fail to form
fail to take recognizable wing, but
God, how I remember your intimate
and persistent efforts to stand apart
so I've kept the patch you discarded
and stitch it here with familial love
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem