As a child I had five G’s
Cutting the curve like a blade through peaches
There were G’s that mimicked letters Harmony wrote
with curly cues and sequined tails,
or a grandmother knitting on a rocking chair.
I can’t forget Mama’s G
hidden from my forgery
there was the G with high loops
and a G that hung low,
This G was like a midwife,
cupping a seeping breast.
other times, it was a young hand
holding a lover’s future
My real G,
hid in the margins of books
and peaked through the fifteenth page of a letter
Begging for the perfunctory side
of the engineer around the corner,
and three doors down.
I open a box
covered in dust
smelling of the damp.
on yellow onion skin
I see my G, but it isn’t mine,
it is his from long ago
A moon smiling on Spencerian roots
I stare until it’s full
– Maya Goode