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.