It is really something when a kid who has a hard time becomes a kid who’s having a good time in no small part thanks to you throwing that kid in the air again and again on a mile long walk home from the Indian joint as her mom looks sideways at you like you don’t need to keep doing this because you’re pouring with sweat and breathing a little bit now you’re getting a good workout but because the kid laughs like a horse up there laughs like a kangaroo beating her wings against the light because she laughs like a happy little kid and when coming down and grabbing your forearm to brace herself for the time when you will drop her which you don’t and slides her hand into yours as she says for the fortieth time the fiftieth time inexhaustible her delight again again again and again and you say give me til the redbud tree or give me til the persimmon tree because she knows the trees and so quiet you almost can’t hear through her giggles she says ok til the next tree when she explodes howling yanking your arm from the socket again again all the wolves and mourning doves flying from her tiny throat and you throw her so high she lives up there in the tree for a minute she notices the ants organizing on the bark and a bumblebee carousing the little unripe persimmon in its beret she laughs and laughs as she hovers up there like a bumblebee like a hummingbird up there giggling in the light like a giddy little girl up there the world knows how to love.
Copyright © 2023 by Ross Gay. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 26, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
When you kill it at the edge of the pan, you don't notice That the egg grows an eye in death. It is so small, it doesn't satisfy Even the most modest morning appetite. But it already watches, already stares at your world. What are its horizons, whose glassy-eyed perspectives? Does it see time, which moves carelessly through space? Eyeballs, eyeballs, cracked shells, chaos or order? Big questions for such a little eye at such an early hour. And you – do you really want an answer? When you sit down, eye to eye, behind a table, You blind it soon enough with a crust of bread.
Copyright © 2011 by Aleš Šteger. Reprinted from The Book of Things with the permission of BOA Editions.