The child tells me, put a brick in the tank,
don’t wear leather, don’t eat brisket,
snapper, or farmed salmon—not tells,
orders—doesn’t she know the sluice gates
are wide open and a trillion gallons
wasted just for the dare of it?
Until the staring eye shares that thrill,
witnessing: I am just iris and cornea,
blind spot where brain meets mind,
the place where the image forms itself
from a spark—image of the coming storm.
Still the child waits outside the bathroom
with the watch she got for Best Essay,
muttering, two minutes too long.
Half measures, I say. She says, action.
I: I’m one man. She: Seven billion.
If you choose, the sea goes back.
|2015-04-16||Maelstrom: One Drop Makes the Whole World Kin||Anne Waldman|
|2015-04-14||Here and There||Juan Felipe Herrera|
|2015-04-13||from The Uses of the Body||Deborah Landau|
|2015-04-12||Monadnock in Early Spring||Amy Lowell|
|2015-04-11||On Virtue||Phillis Wheatley|
|2015-04-10||Unpacking a Globe||Arthur Sze|
|2015-04-09||Next Time Ask More Questions||Naomi Shihab Nye|
|2015-04-08||Cotton You Lose in the Field||Frank Stanford|