By Kristin Berger

The pedals have been slipping
under her booted will to turn corners,
stretch into longer and longer afternoons.
Not one notch, or two, but three
full clinks the top-tube lengthens,
the bike adjusted, for now,
to this lanky new girl-body.

Fingers are counted upon, words slip
from her lips like pigeons spiraling,
white-bellied notes above the wire.
I do nothing but hold
back. These growing pains
are like the stretch-marks I didn't know
I would one day welcome,
a map to trace the moments
between coming, going
and soon-to-be gone.

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