Sourdough

Lots of sourdough bread and baby cries
(a bit)

when I grow up I’ll look wise standing
on my tiptoes
over your bed. I will sing you a note I have
learned how to hit
I will teach you to roll up your sleeves
under your elbows, before work, and above all
just when you’re about to let go.


I will put a song on repeat
the one about apples, and summer, and sweet
the one that would make your eyes shut
if you weren’t already asleep
(fast, fast asleep)

when we were younger and hadn’t yet learned how to walk
(Orcas, ice, ice cold)
we lived in a four-meter-tall piano,
and we hung from the strings,
ready like three day-old laundry.


Twice I turned my back on you
I fell flat on my face but didn’t lose,
now our feet stick out of the cot and the only milk
we drink is a buttery drop
in out morning coffee
smoke sticks, bread crumbs, cheese spreads
(sir, we must inform you: your salmon is dead)

My wild exuberant love feeds on wild garlic
it plucked from the mother devil’s own head and
breathes an air of such wisdom and sweat
that from now on when I smell of coconut
you can rub off on me

When I grow up I’ll lie flat on my back
sometimes,
& you will come pick me up
& we will live even better
(& the air will be fresher)


And hush, baby, cry,
when you can’t translate this one cent per word,
just remember.
(We have so much left to forget.)

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