The sidewalks are crooked
from the trees’ roots
concealed beneath them.
The fruits on the trees look like bird droppings
and only the birds can eat them.
Soon it’ll rain,
the dark fruits will give the sidewalks a shiner.
Those who walk without hanging onto a stroller,
may not slip it as easily,
yet won’t be able to maneuver among the squashy
We’re not like the trees.
We talk about everything.
Between sleep to slip we slide.
Suspended on a slip of the tongue
that becomes a beak.
About the House Gecko
It’s summer now and I want to tell you about the gecko.
About how she comes at night to the chill wall of my room.
About her reptile tenderness glimpsing
through her peer through skin.
Quiet as night climbing up
to the painting of the rabbit above the printer,
the wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the young goat,
and our house gecko with the bunny,
me with my husband and children.
On the wall she has it all upside down,
as if heads to tails are backwards,
pointing her tail first
as if it’s not replaceable.
It’s summer now, I’m awake for longer hours.
I see the sky darken,
I see the absolute blackness of the gecko’s eyes
on the other edge of her body,
a colon before the next sentence.
And There’s Something About Softness
People are still flirting
with trying to look younger,
to make each other laugh.
Their existence is softened
by the luxuries of having some time, some needs, met.
People are still eager,
not too tired of being keen,
I have found out
among the snow banks,
the stroller of my soft new baby.