another sticky morning rises out
of the mucus on the horizon like
an egg-yolk wobbling into the
mixing bowl, around the flakes
of flour
oh, if only the earth were really flat
then i could hike to the ice wall
at the edge – and leap off – only to
hit what? at the bottom? and could i
shout my findings back to my assistant
in time?
but the hot, summer reality is that if
i walk, i walk forever – over land bridges
and onto other continents with different-
colored insects and leaves of alien
contour, where i will pray to foreign
gods and ask them whether this is the
right plot for a home and family, then
receive some unfriendly answer and walk
again until i’m where my mother labored
to make me, until i’m standing in the
cemetery of my ancestors – whom i
rarely texted – and asking too late for
a parable on eking out joy from the rinds
of shriveled fruit.
how did you survive your great depression,
great grandmother? how can i survive
mine, when the devil steals the little
chemicals that make me say “oh!” at
a nice, beautiful thing and leaves me
with an “oh.”
another glop on the horizon wibbles
into the bright, blue mixing bowl
around the floury tufts of cloud
and stares back, like the yellow eye
of a cyclops, waiting for me to leap