Grounding

GROUNDING

We’d park at the cow pasture, hike 

through autumn angst and thick 

excrement of summer, the air 

dizzy with fireflies and over there

the fair lights glistening like sweat

on a girl's neck as their lips meet

in the cotton-candy dark. Intent to prove

I was grown now—even loved

the upside-down—I’d run from ride 

to rumbling ride those nights, 

inviting vertigo, then sneak off to a bench

when the spin became too much,

sip cool tap water from a Nalgene

bottle I'd brought from home. 

Sometimes I still feel the need to ground

myself, the way even the Hellhound

was riveted into something sure. 

Faith and fatherhood are enough to turn  

any inside out. I sneak off these nights too,

slip into the nursery where she 

sleeps with bunny draped over one arm, 

and touch her hair. How little I am 

certain of. How certain the little mystery

curled there, breath steady and circling.