Death-rattle or snore:
I have always confused the opening
and closing of doors.
When the percolator stops, it is clear: the coffee is warm and ready,
it makes an entrance like a soft purr,
the sound of shaking sand off your beach towel,
picking pills off the quilt, or peeling an apple – suddenly
you’re sinking
your teeth right in.
We go in swarmed with hair, swaddled in ourselves,
we come out wayward, wrapped loosely in bouquets,
We, ourselves, are not adhesive;
always, the sulfur stench, the rose bath, the ash in our tear ducts.
We scrape our big teeth under our thumb nail to remove the dirt,
then the ash (memories of our embryonic home) -
it’s a primordial motion from sea to land: easier to crawl than stand,
our chests too heavy to float, even heavier to hold.
(Sometimes, we slip into the sea.)