"A fruit learns to love its juice."
~ Teresa Mei Chuc
A buttonhole expands
space the width of a fingernail,
the depth of a black hole: it's
fumble o'clock past the hour,
and you will be allowed to try
to get it right, especially
if undoing the garment is one
objective. All across the yard,
clumps of snake berries signal,
wanting to be given the same
legitimacy as things packed
in gleaming plastic. Why not?
Isn't routine the surest
assassin of gestation?
Three people around
the breakfast table, one
of anything. Crumbled past
its expiration date, the heel
of a loaf grows voluptuous
with the addition of liquid.
Like the heart, possibly
the oldest pickle in the human
body. Or the liver, last
factory in the interior:
whatever it makes, it never
manufactures twist ties. Come
help me render ovation
to their performance
while the sky is still
a smooth blue stone
and some of our homes
are still standing.
