This, too, is a day
that could perch delicately
in the palm of your hand,
a baby bird flown away
faster than you can photograph
the sweet touch of yellow
just under her chin—
and that’s as it should be,
as it always is—
but today you might also miss
even seeing
all the splendor grilled into a corn tortilla
with its train track burn marks
crusted and perfect,
your sister (as usual) lifting her voice up
to cut you off quickly and unlisten you along
with an idea that turns out to be
pretty good,
the prehistoric lovely buggy of a car
that lingers beside you
in the left-turn lane,
and the touch of rose scent
that stays after the foam
of the soap that you scrubbed
forty seconds, to be safe.
You can’t feel it anymore,
because they’ve made you afraid,
and tomorrow could crash
down your door any day—
and it might, too.
It might.
Something in that is true,
but it always is.
Listen: let the waves of what-if’s
drift in and out with their shipwrecks
and myths, as they do,
as we all tremble sometimes
in the midnight wind.
It’s in the in-between hours
you must take what is yours
and squeeze it hard like an orange
with both fists,
juice dribbling down your fingers,
dripping lyrics on your wrists.
This, too, is a day
you are here with the sun,
with its tumbling wonders
and dirt road bouquets.
You’re alive, you know.
You’re still lightning and lace.
Backyard Apricots 