What I Am Looking for Is What Is Looking

A single day is all I need for now,

and enough wool to clothe a tribe.

Weightlessness destroys

all muscle, even the heart,

which requires the burden

of its own heft

to keep rhythm. Say what you

will about god, but he is certainly

inventive. In an instant,

he could tear apart your father

then build you a new one

from the pieces. Like a mother

trying her own milk, he is growing

more and more curious

by the minute. I am wearing his wonder

like a long cape, squinting

into the fog, covering

my yawns. Behind me is silence.

Ahead is joy, different

from anything I’ve ever

known as joy. When I was four years old

I was already nostalgic

for three. My face was so bright,

you could only make me out

by the cherry juice stains on my

cheeks. I wanted to keep

everything I touched:

a red spoon, a saffron

country, a dying cricket. This

made each meal

last for ages—I’d inspect

the table, take the tiniest bite

of bread, then hold it in my

mouth till it went sweet.

There is always a hair that divides

what is false and what is

true—I have been collecting each

of these, weaving them into

a luscious wig which I must

respectfully insist I be allowed

to wear to any occasion. The

best lullabies keep tempo with

the mother’s heartbeat. God,

exhausted by silence, finally

built himself a world,

filled it with falling

rain and animal cries.

Some days it’s difficult

to hear him tapping along

over all the clamor.

Some days it’s difficult

to hear anything else.