Back then,
thought
I was supposed to
cut
all the things I wanted—
into poems;
lash at their boundaries,
rub, scour, stick-
in—everything that fit.
Figured I wanted
a cool indigo
bruise to show,
sweet and ugly,
earthy and thick
ready to bust—
like an overfat misshapen
heirloom tomato.
Assumed enough pressure
would hold
anything in, though.
Wouldn't even have recognized—
how savory
a simple
leaf
of oregano,
how merciful
a missing detail,
how decent
and right
one like
this could be—five, four,
three, even
two
years ago.
