Making Sandwiches
Me & my brain are making sandwiches for the first time in years
& I remember
I like sourdough. I wonder
whose hands made the bread & if this cooking,
this creation, is a kind of holiness. My brain laughs.
We’re having a sleepover on a school night
& I wonder
whose mother authorized it
By the grace of God
I am with my brain
& by the grace of God,
this brain’s a scrappy one
Which is to say, she is still sprinting: I’m impressed-
she did a lot of math this month. I joke that
she looks like she’s here
to eff the party up.
Brain tells Body (my body’s here too)
The first rule
of any effective love practice
is to synthesize its thoughtwork
with its bodywork: “Classic
substance-presence query, honeybee,” she sighs
& I know
that sigh was for me
I tell them, “First rule
of the big city
is to mind ya own damn business.” My body sets up
a cot at the foot of my bed
Gingerly removes her stockings, that they won’t rip
& I know
mishandling must be a violence
in which the body keeps score. She, of all people,
must be keeping score- I could stand
to learn a thing or two from this inclination
of tenderness, alone
My mouth, every morning,
famously reaching,
rooting ‘round any regional iteration of the daylight
To inhale a verbose evidence
& then exhale, like
my photosynthesis must be scheduled
to kick in any day now
As though this were the only thing
I knew how to do
