The Past is an Egg the Width of a Thimble
In a past life I worried if hummingbirds slept.
I kept whatever I couldn’t control close,
spelled out like knuckle tattoos.
My favorite question from grade school:
What advice would you give your younger self?
To go back, I’d pencil in bubble letters:
STUDY YOUR ANXIETY LIKE A HOLSTEIN
WITH A PORTHOLE IN ITS CHEST.
I’d stop searching the xeriscape of my mind
looking for the perfect stone to shatter
my bedroom window. At dusk my town
glows like a birdbath after a downpour.
Every stranger I meet I offer milkweed,
explaining This is the only plant a monarch will lay its eggs on.
In the morning I walk to work. Before me
a sidewalk of gingkos. Their petals the color
of the underside of a lizard I kept as a boy.
I envy their quick abandon—perfunctory
& numerous as freshly cut hair.