Wittgenstein's Monstershe walks with a ferocity that demands attention.
when she calls me by my first name—
now half my height but twice as tall—
i know i’ve screwed up.
but i know, too, when she calls from the window,
sweet as the honeysuckle she tends beneath the sill,
by the one she gave me—
nicked from my father’s father,
named me.
her words gave structure,
meaning,
and truth.
most of all when she said:
i love you.