Things I Know to Be True
I’ve never seen mole crickets—obsidian eyes
            and veined stained-glass wings—but I’ve seen

            their photographs. (Their legs shovel as our hands hold.
            Are our hands best built to grasp or jab

            or weave or crack the pistachios left
at the bottom of the bowl?) Some mornings, I lose

            balance. One hand on the sink’s corner. One fingering
            my teeth. (Some mornings, I lose

            myself. Elbow as door jamb, tongue stuck
in the mug in the kitchen sink.) I could fall over rewinding

            your voice and even the linoleum would feel
soft. (I think.) Dead crickets lie

            on their backs. (Curled
limbs.) Old cough drops always stick

            a bit of paper. (I want to swallow pages
            of words, if only to soothe the red and raw

parts of me.) Some fortunes I’ve unrolled must be
            true. (Sunlight will soften

my eyes as they open to you?) A finger is not
            a tongue. A finger is not a tongue.
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