I read a Korean poem
with the line “Today you are the youngest
you will ever be.” Today I am the oldest
I have been. Today we drink
buckwheat tea. Today I have heat
in my apartment. Today I think
about the word chada in Korean.
It means cold. It means to be filled with.
It means to kick. To wear. Today we’re worn.
Today you wear the cold. Your chilled skin.
My heart kicks on my skin. Someone said
winter has broken his windows. The heat inside
and the cold outside sent lightning across glass.
Today my heart wears you like curtains. Today
it fills with you. The window in my room
is full of leaves ready to fall. Chada, you say. It’s tea.
We drink. It is cold outside.

^{Prince tour, Public Hall, November 21, 1982}

By the time I got here, the album
            was already history. 1999 dropped in 1982, 
when I worried about what I’d do with my life

after high school, and as I fretted over 
            how my hair looked on mornings 
before I left for school; though, sadly,

my worries were not in that order. 
            But when I faced the end of the century, 
I realized I knew little more then than I did when I sang

along with Prince at the Coliseum in Cleveland.
            On that night, I didn’t know a concert could be history. 
Me, just living in a moment of not recalling any moment

before this one, which must be what joy
            was, but what did I know? No one understood 
what a new century would look like,

and I didn’t gather that I’d lose loved
            ones, soon after the pages of the calendar tore away.
Back then, I didn’t understand what I’d be

if Prince had not been. Now, years later, 
            “life is just a party, and parties weren’t meant to last.”
His lyrics weigh on me, as I grow older and ill,

and years later I’ll barely remember this moment 
            of simply remembering, just another day called today.
But this time, even now, I know more:

I know, for instance, even as I hum a tune 
            and bring forth memories of that night, 
I’ve already become a point in history

before I even finish this song.

All our windows open, steady drizzle on the kudzu’s 
broad backs, birds making their music like this isn’t North 
Carolina, but a tropical rainforest, and we’re somewhere 
deep in the palms and vines. But it’s our own ferns and fiddleheads, 
evergreens and sugar maples, trillium blooming, or on the verge, 
for no one in particular, for everyone in particular, as if to say, 
Go on, enjoy it. Rain, flowers, time on earth. The apple I  
hand-picked at the market. Braiding my friend’s hair, silver  
in my fingers, how I tie a tiny bow gently at the end 
just as the sun comes out. I want to believe this is true power, that 
kindness is the only weapon worth wielding, and I wield it, 
land blow after blow to my enemies, without mercy. 
Mercy. Bring the wine. Set the table for surprise guests.  
No matter the plates don’t match and we’ve run out of chairs, 
only that there is bread and laughter, enough to go around. 
Parades, in spite of—Pride, in spite of—Please, someone answer all my 
questions about hummingbirds and the little futures we are 
reaching for, the ones rising above the horizon right before our eyes,  
such intoxicating visions, our truest selves, with nothing to hide. Go on. 
Trust the child standing barefoot in the rain, her face turned 
up to the sky. Trust that crescendo building in your chest is your 
voice, singing what you need to hear, the stone-heavy echo 
welled from darkest springs. Go ahead. Open the door. No one can 
explain how to love the world. It doesn’t happen all at once. But 
you can start here. Tonight, with yourself. Someone near you. Let it go 
zigzagging town to town. Look, there. It’s already coming back around.

Last summer, I rose 
before dawn, crept 
through the house still 
pregnant with sleep, 
pulled on tattered jeans,  
a stained sweatshirt, 
a baseball cap  
ragged with wear, 
grabbed my coffee and lunch 
from the fridge, and drove 
south to Watsonville 
to unload grapes 
in the early morning light. 
All day, I shoveled them 
into the destemmer, 
then into the juicer, 
the golden liquid 
sweeter than ambrosia. 
I filled tanks to ferment, 
piled the empty stems 
picked clean onto 
the compost heap, 
refilled the tank on the fork- 
lift, hid the keys, 
and followed the sun 
that had already set, 
chasing the low glow 
at the horizon  
as the stars came out, 
constellations 
I could hardly raise 
my eyes to see.

Full-on, no bullshit, no irony, yes Taco Bell 
where I can almost always pull together the 
cash to get dinner, at my brokest 
scrounging up enough change  
for the pillowy warmth of a bean burrito,  
extra red sauce, meant to be eaten  
behind the steering wheel in a parking lot 
or while driving, the wrapper crumpled up  
and thrown on the passenger side floor, 
leftover napkins stashed in the glovebox.  
In high school we’d ditch seventh period  
and drive 10 miles down I-5 to the closest town  
big enough to have a Taco Bell,  
where we’d house as much food as we could 
pay for, lounging in the pinkpurplegreen vinyl  
or the metal swivel chairs we’d knock knees under,  
giving each other dares around fire sauce,  
hoarding packets of mild sauce to douse everything.  
And forever, my love to the Taco Bell employees,  
who took my order when I was drunk or high or crying,  
who listened and fed me without too much judgment  
through high school and college and my thirties,  
and a special love for the two who pushed my car  
through the drive-thru, once, when it broke down  
mid-order. I couldn’t afford a tow until payday.  
They let me leave it in the lot. 
This is how I know labor is entitled to all it creates,  
and that given a chance most of us are helpers, 
we want to help people and to be helped  
by people, amidst the absolute and delicious  
loveliness of ordinary things.