Last week
someone said
I had seer’s eyes,
and you noticed their color
for the first time

though I have called myself
by your name
for exactly
as long
as by my father’s.

It is a point
of no return. I cross it
to the sound of children laughing,
more dangerous
than children crying.

And all our dead animals
pass before my eyes:
the dogs more domestic
than either of us, fish
the color of greed,

Today in a clay pot
the Ponderosa Lemon hangs
in the east,
heavy and yellow.
You acknowledge it is morning

and turn to me.

You have learned
my combination by heart—
the safe flies open.
We are coming
of age.