A Little House

​in the mornings of my days
with you, I am gloriously
normal. my head remains
connected to my body.
the colors all stay attached
to their respective things:
blue to sky. orange to orange
your skin is freckled brown
which is also of the earth.
we suspect even the long-
lost color of breath will any
day slink back through
the yard like an old cat.
I am waking to the smell
of toast and the crepuscular
hiss of the coffee maker.
light leaks into the world
through its windows and valves.
I will know what to do with my
arms and lips, a simple recipe
which never grows old even
as the cook does. we get tired
of our own reflection in water-pots
but the stainless steel soup ladle
will shine through an apocalypse.
I am remembering how
in an old life I jumped off
rooftops with daisies between
my teeth. the roads were
new and thrown down everywhere;
pedestrians were outlawed
outright. I dismantled things
efficiently and ate off
countertops. there wasn’t a plate
in the house. ‘okay,’ I said when
you asked, ‘but I’m not giving
up on my sadness.’ all the stars
in were listening and winking.
‘we don’t have to trade’
the world said. ‘there is a little house
for your sadness right here
in this house.’ meanwhile an
albatross was trying
to lift my head into the sun.
‘not yet,’ I said. ‘even the useless
parts are welcome here.
when we made our pact
years ago, there was no need
for the ground. but I have found
another way, bird, and at last
my toes are in agreement with
me.’