I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
or for anyone.
It would just be about your hula hoops,
streaked with glitter and dirt,
and children we passed –
showing off the elbow passes and chest rolls you taught them.
It would be about hair dye –
staining my scalp and the cat,
crumpling a plastic bag to make up for miscalculations,
running in with the motor humming and bare feet.
It would be about blenders whining with a thick, speckly Pure Green Goddess in it,
but with a half an avocado slipped in because you are the Pure Green Goddess.
It would be about tarot cards,
the shapes of each archetype worn to only silhouettes
in order to tell my tale.