The week to share something soft
it’s my turn
to deliver a soft object
and make the team smile
my back chills where it leans
against the wall
I hear the switch
in the other room
the sniff beyond the hallway
that is the spine
I prepare to convey
the need for the soft thing
with the other voices
too much in mind naysaying
or second guessing when I
am still first-thinking
what is a key, I wonder and then
what is the field
if I were to point
at the sink in the breakroom, I’d forget
to ask what makes it fill, what invites
spillover, and worry
who I am, why I might
draw attention to
the silverware drawer the pocket
door
and penciling as feminist act, just one
of many dry varieties of grass
I store such fragments
in the cloud which had been floating along
just fine until
the screen darkened
unexpectedly
Winde leges
a murmuration, a bird
is a sound in the outdoors on the prairie
wings startle to move the wind and—with other rushes and darts of air—create
a hum
both tangible and daunting the egg
—the idea of the egg—
builds expectation
scaly legs
tease bits of eggshell
like a xylophone or ratchet
music as dangerous as gravity’s
feathers
nowhere
do we say the eggshell breaks, though one example is
“to form a cover over: ‘The grass covered the grave’” without
fragility—there’s a body down there—and harmony
both damp (green, wet, natural) and ominous (loss)
the egg
is hatched
Saturation
I ask the napkin: will you
miss me when I’ve gone
have you seen my face, how it
sheens red with satisfaction, pink
in agony. At the breakfast table
lunch table, dinner table
I am inspired to be
enchantment.
From my perspective
even the gray path leading
up from the south
across the dry brush
carries a fresh look.
My chair holds me just so:
four legs on the floor supporting
my legs, my arms acting
for its absent arms.
My imagination extends
to the second story
the fourth story, the roof.
Hold me, I say, delight me
you’re exquisite.