Because
Because my daughter wants a poem
without love, death, naked people,
or Persephone
and I can’t imagine
what I don’t know
Because the radio broadcasts
terror through our rooms
Because sometimes for no reason
I remember Sandra Bland, and cry
Because when regret nuzzles next to me
all night, the dog still
greets me in the morning with her eager nose
Because my daughter and I lift
drying worms from the sidewalk
and return them to soil
Because for all my errors and obstinance
still the mountain offers me so many angles of her face
Because a day can begin with laundry
and end with astonishment
Because if I lie still, the cat
may massage my belly
as though I were dough
Because no war’s been averted
by the knowledge that our bones
are made from the same stars
Because my dying friend said she would
contact me, and I won’t be fooled
by birds or odd weather
Because I wanted to be broken
and forgiven and healed into shine
but remain messy and yearning and unsure,
my mind “a drunken monkey stung by scorpions”
despite decades of incense and timer
and my best intentions
Because while I am willing to ignore
death, naked people, and a goddess, I believe
that love must be allowed in every crevice
it can find a way to enter
and I must submit to reverence
by allowing this world’s jewels
to be enough — willow, waterfall,
old woman with a silver cane,
a guttered wrapper’s gleam
Because the dead do not come back
Because bats are only animals
in practical flight
and there are days I can’t recall
my mother’s face