Your look makes me want to jump off the roof
of the modern art museum. How am I supposed
to tell you about my life? Yesterday I saw a turtle
eat a dandelion flower up close. I cannot say what
this might mean to you. It was on my phone,
which is where I’ve been living lately. I can’t expect
you to understand. I cry openly and you stare at me
with big wet cow-eyes. I tell you what the abyss is like.
I heard breathing. It was my own. I wasn’t terrified.
Loneliness binds me to myself but I use my phone
as a wedge, use it to keep myself from touching who
I am. Nobody wants to grow up, not even children.
They just want to be taller because they hate being
looked down upon. What is it we see when we turn
and look back? Salt? Pepper? I’ll take both. No more
questions. All I want is to sit in this field with you,
little cow, this field I built in my mind. I pet you, make
little noises. You try to move away but I hold on to you,
I throw my arms around your neck. You drop
your dark head, continue chewing what you chew.
There’s no me without you,
says the cow in the sunlight
being looked at, being drawn
by the child with crayons.
Is the hill an almond? the child
wants to know. Is life irrefutable?
The start of ‘me’ is the start of
the ending of ‘you.’ See that hole
in your sock where
the cold can get through?
The child’s toe sticks
through the hole now.
Some philosophers grow ulcers
from eating loneliness.
There’s not much we know.
The cow’s tongue smacks its lips.
The child fills in its spots
with blue crayon and silence.
A dragonfly or not.