A Simple Utopia

In the world I wan
to live in, orange slices
in a Tupperware bowl—
the kind that lasts for decades—
are passed around,
like bread but not as crumby,
fish but not as fishy,
like sweet sticky sun—
enough for each kid
on each team at the tournament,
for each side-line parent
cheering for the sport
of cheering—every bite
of every shared morsel
a Sacrament of holiness
nodding to holiness.

Ocean, If It Stopped

What might save you is water.
I once saw the tide pause
which meant the wind paused
and the clouds, white animal
without names which saw themselves
perfectly reflected in salt blue.
It was then, I knew, it could hold me,
the water, even if it swelled again,
because it held those clouds.
What might save you is clouds,
sheep you can eat and still remain
vegetarian. Anyone can devour
a cloud by gulping when it rains.
I waded in the pause, how quiet.
Too much for me to hear,
and so I yelled a little rain-song
in the sun. I love the sun,
its spackled rays across the sand.
And then I danced as ocean
breathed again and shadows crawled
then raced across the shore.
The whole day I thought of you
and me and what might save
anyone, what we can keep,
what rolls away and comes again.

By the Tidal Creek at Dawn

— where the ocean leaves its muck and shards of shells,
returns with seaweed, minnows—
the deer tread, stop to graze wild blueberries.
 
Is it the dawn or the deer or the creek?
As a child I never heard of church outside of church,
never spoke to anyone called God.

Years I’d forgotten to sing. I sought refuge
in grey sleep until my bed wouldn’t hold me.
I walked my silence to a window, stared

beyond the pane. A deer looked up, saw me,
held my gaze. One of us convinced me to take leave
of me. So I trudged down to the creek,

settled into shades of sunrise, nectarines. 
I heard ripples. I heard black birds. Then a hum
inside my chest. At first I whispered. Next, I spoke,
 
then belted out a song, an aria
I’d composed with the birds, the deer, the dawn.

A Reckoning

Let me not forget, I cannot fix sinks.
I could never fix sinks 
so I have not gone backwards.
There’s a crust of rust on the faucet.

Is sink water filthy because our faces are filthy?
When does the thickness of time amass?
To know your own hands in the mirror is easy—
lean in and touch the ridges every day.

Under the basin, after the plumber came and went,
the pipe still drips grimy water. But in a hush.
He removed the stubborn clog
with a labor of determined grunts.

There’s a tinge of rust in the bucket
in the cabinet below the drain trap.
This is how it works: rust does not un-oxidize.
This vanity may be beyond repair.