Little Song November 9, 2007
Sponge-soaked in tears at the summer’s start,
she drives off with a cup on the roof of her car.
For a full half block before it tumbles, not even a drop is spilled.
She imagines sometimes her life as a spiral –
stiff, tightly wound; and then there are moments
like an unstuck window, a cleansing gust of grief.
What she feels is death and no near reason.
One day asleep in a swamp of self and the next
at a wake where everyone wears plaid,
or everyone wears tanks,
or everyone wears the same blank stare,
and then the scrape of the shovel.
Sunflowers stuffed into bags of waste.
Shadow of a hawk across the river.
Her father whose toenails have long since turned yellow
says birth is a miracle, he just had that thought.
The pitcher picks off a runner at first.
There are miracles, yes, and there are bad choices.
Like a bear, the shadow moving.
Upright and uncracked in the middle of the road,
her cup picked up by her older brother.
The sheer unlikeliness makes her sing
nervously like a tiny bird
whose eyes have not yet opened.