The day you first flew in an airplane
and discovered that cumulus clouds
are not cotton puffs.
How, when the waitress doesn’t bring bread
to the table, you believe she must be thinking
you shouldn’t be eating bread anyway.
When your baby is a small bird
perched on your outstretched hand
and it reminds you of a single pearl
rolling off a snapped silver chain.
That time you felt that finally
the two of you were making headway together,
but then an argument prevailed and settled in the air.
The way that, after you end therapy you begin to realize
you aren’t so intensely interesting after all.
The perpetual act of getting stuck in conversations
about topics you have absolutely no interest in,
but about which you have to conjure up
something to say.
Noticing how people always seem to be saying
nasty things about other people who aren’t there
to defend themselves.
Knowing that, despite how little power
we actually have, we continue to try to keep planes
in the air by worrying about them.
How, just yesterday, you were a swift doe
crossing a busy highway and now your life depends
on thinking you are important enough to cherish.
Looking in the mirror at the hump beneath your neck
where 1.5 of your inches have disappeared into.
When you've begin to understand that the maxim to eat
three meals a day is just a life-long dress rehearsal for fat.
Having to refrain from saying: Why not just listen
to the music instead of booming on about
how much you love the music.
How my heroes are all dead. And how
we don't all have the same needs, Maslow.
The moment I recognize love after it has ended.
And how I spend all night gathering it in, holding it,
inspecting it, and then, rejecting it.