Out the window a squirrel’s noshing on a quesadilla,
paws clasped around a tortilla shard as if mid-prayer
its prayers were answered. I’m making dinner again:
salmon filets like flagstones made from moon,
a cube of butter in the skillet spreading its skirts
while on the cutting board an onion heretics the air.
The truth is sometimes I call your name because I need you
to come look at this, look at how alive I am,
and sometimes how alive I am can only be seen
by what’s happening around me: two people cheering
for a dumpster-diving tree rat, one’s hair
waterfalling onto the other’s shoulder, joy
like a school of minnows swimming overhead—
another glorious day where we have nothing to bury
besides our appetites. Listen:
the dishes in the sink aren’t going to elope
tonight. Let’s admire the sky’s tablecloth,
its chorus of spilled salt. Let’s clasp
our bodies like two hands praying
and crisp the edges of grace.