Like a tiny armored vehicle, you rove
the hay-colored field of my coffee table
bedraggled little green thing, no one
can tell me your name but your bright
copper eye startles and repels me
as I watch you climb into my milk
and I take you with the cup, leave you
outside where it is newly spring
and the air is cold. At first
I don’t understand that the case
you drag behind you like an empty
bullet shell is the place where
you were born just now, that the bags
you carry oddly furled at your sides
are lacy green wings, as new and wobbly
as your awkward young self, that soon
will open and bear you away;
you will know exactly where to go
right then, without even a thought
and I’ll go back to my labyrinth
of could be, what if, and was.
From Wild Domestic (Pearl Editions, 2011).
Used here with the author’s permission.