At the rate this ladybug gnaws you’d think my arm hairs are trees.
I thought I had been punished already with the apprehension that
accompanies what it takes to mouth “hi” to a stranger, but here
we are: I scurry to type what if a shark jumps up and just eats your face?,
a question I pick up from a young boy who throttles by, and I am
reminded of how easily words whittle away at the profound. But then
again, reason always ends at the water’s edge, so I press my stomach
against the wood rail and watch as the waves roll over a rock, the
same as the recursive dip of the seagull’s head, a baby nestling into
its mother’s neck. So maybe fear is the need to stay.¹ A chickadee dee
dee dees, brining and burning its diary, and I whisper “What’s the
matter little one? You’re okay, you’re okay” until it burps and spits
up its imagined home: nostalgia, falling peaceful. I don’t think I have
ever written a poem that has not turned to keening, but this might
be the exception. On my way home, a cat caws gaping and does not
recuse herself from my sorrow. Rather, she rams and butts her head
into my knee to let me know if I squeeze a nettle confidently, it will
not sting. At the parade on Sunday, I witnessed my friend carving
he on one breast and she on the other, and I took note of a man
who rushed water to a performer before they continued marching,
marching. I wonder if this is why as a child I would go around and
pinch the cheeks of those I loved the most— as if to say you’re fucking
gorgeous, didn’t you know this is what you would become.