Not trying to wipe the smearsof gold from my chin, not trying
to erase the decadence of seedsand profanity of onion
and grease not tryingto pretend I don’t open
my mouth around the zaftigpearls of rain in the middle
of the night or that I don’t lovethe moment right before sleep
when I am most tenderand translucent my bladder half-filled
knowing I will have to get upand pee knowing my daughter
will wake up before I am readythe way I became aware of her
on a climb through the mountainsa heaviness in my limbs a gentle
premonition as I walked laterto the Rite Aid and knew in my hands
and I knew in my mouthand I knew in the way my body
pulled me forward as I weptwith joy but also grief
that a part of my life was endingand isn’t it…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2019