like how I’ve walked through life
assuming a date fruit
was born wrinkled and dry

but it had supple skin once
yellow like a pear
and not a lick of sweet

it’s a small epiphany
but it makes me wonder
about the other numb spots
on my brain

there is no way to know
of course
so I must be a whale
open wide
let it all in

sorry, half-finished novel
I need to gnaw on the dictionary
for a while.

not because it is particularly poetic
but because you have trained your mind
to grope each moment

and this one comes around twice a day
sweet tingle on your tongue
familiar rattle of floss and mouthwash
fastidious sweeping away of dinner
or the gluey stretch of night

the way in India they scrub the front porch
erasing any spiritual mischief
telling Lakshmi and the others
that today
just like yesterday
they could use a little luck
if there is some to spare.

but it cannot be hunted
it isn’t waiting for you
at the end of some quest

it’s already inside you
flapping against your throat

if it helps
imagine it’s a bird

your job is just to stop
every so often
and listen
to it sing.

I told this to my husband
as we were buying arugula
at the farmer’s market
and we chuckled at the absurdity of it
while our son climbed
into a stranger’s wagon
and told the boy sitting across from him
enthusiastic and indecipherable things.

Maybe this is what kids are for
to chip away at the plaque
on our spontaneity
to remind us there is only 0.1% difference in my DNA
and that of the man over there
reading under a tree
in a shirt too heavy
for this glove of hot weather.

But I am too shy
to bring him one of my husband’s t-shirts
and ask him
is the book good
perhaps we could all read it out loud together
on cushions on our floor
after dinner
sometime.

not inside it
thank god

but only some old fleece
between my unaware flesh
and the blackness of him
that feathery quick beast

how long had he been crawling on me

I scream these words
but all that comes out
are vowels

I am sure if I had been carrying my child
I would have dropped him
on his head

I know what you’re thinking
that spider was more afraid of me
than I was of it
but that’s where you’re wrong

he’s in the dirt
or some drainpipe
having his dank little spider life
while I’m left weak-kneed and twitching
thinking every piece of lint
or tickle of thread on my arm
is him
back
to hunt me.

Other poets are flirtatious
sidling up next to the smells
yes, a cemetery can flirt back
and so they charm it
into revealing
its backstory.

I don’t know any other way
except to bully the world
I am greedy and fast
it’s a staring contest
I’m a poet on a deadline
and the remarkable thing is how they all surrender
like today
as I stood on the deck
if I hadn’t seen the elm tree
fling her seeds into the wind
I would have sworn
the sky was coated
in butterflies.

pyramid of wooden blocks
miniature UPS truck
blender lid
tennis ball

while I went on
about my book idea

your little body so quiet
bent over your cockeyed masterpiece

only when I told you
about how your dad
filmed the garbage truck that morning
because you missed it

did you look up and speak

more
more

so we ran a bath
and I told you story after story
about your dad
and later under the quilt
both of us lying there
with luck in our bellies
waiting for him to come home.

the beginnings of stories
like a fleet of broken-down cars
packed for a road trip
enthusiasm laid so bare
so bright amidst the rubble

I plotted one out to the end
and left it like that
bones with no flesh

I try to re-enter the idea
but it is like licking the menu
like trying to know a life
by the talking points
for a speech
at a funeral

it’s like this with old boyfriends too
I wanted to dig my heart out
with missing
and now I can barely remember
what we talked about
were they funny
did they have
middle names.

ambulance lights flash
reflecting in the street like a swarm of red fish
a strange stillness clogs the air
shock or maybe
it is all the concentration
angels and death and paramedics
trying to get their way

as for the rest of us
it’s not morose curiosity

we want a shortcut out of our apathy
a reminder that we are sacks of water
that can puncture

get me home
so I can hold my husband’s beautiful face
write something sublime
and kiss my son.