If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal, if I could find my way to the walking rock…

No table salt, no laughing pepper. No funny farm, no moldy vegetables.

Rot in a garden, where do we see that rot, the heavy mosses, the packed earth of the path? The beaten borders, crumbling boundaries? The edge trees fallen into the river, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, in a death flirtation with the current? Where do we see that?

Where do we see the planes? How far away are they? The red light blinks in the sky at night and there you are, another person.

the natural world

I am tremendously interested in going into the mountains. The place where I will sit down to dinner with Arabs, my combed hair glistening. The charred fox on the platter, mistaken for dog, shot through the heart. The chorus of cousins, solemnly uninvited, but still in attendance, the rugged rapscallions. The host with his lions, the pair eating onions, minions serving buns. The bat is a velvet mask.

I am very interested in your cavern in the mountains, the crevice where the sun shines for one hour only. I am puzzled by the moldiness of man-made surfaces, the genial alignment of everything in the natural world. If I could find my way to a simpler occupation. If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal. If I could find my way to the walking rock.

unseen baby

Unseen baby, unknowable one. You didn’t invite them to become bad mothers. You don’t correspond with mothers. You don’t know the alignment, the starsign, the angel of mother. You don’t ask and the mother won’t retreat. You avoid the mother. The tattoos, the breath, the side dishes. The lack of respect. You are eternally grateful.