small pink detonations,
the shapes of tiny hands.
in the photograph,
I climbed the tree outside the house
with bare feet, each of you
a dismantled atom,
pale arithmetic of electrons
looped over broken orbits.
all matter, Dalton said, is made
of discrete parts: indivisible,
some sunlight leaks through
the branches, the orange breath
of gravity, but not me.
up in the fractals of magnolias
the atoms gave us names:
spokes of wrinkled blooms,
and one body,
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.