First stop, CVS: cards for the grandkids. Red hearts
like catalpa leaves—is this what love looks like?
Nothing like the maroon mess inside me, with its
twittering valves and worry. Study its dimensions
(breadth, height, depth, by imagined disaster) and
you’ll see anything can happen—husband, dog,
daughter, grandkids crushed (toppling masonry, coyote,
truck)—though mornings, there they are unscathed.
So why still this slip of muskrat through the mind—
brown furred curve surfacing—quick swimmer, gone
but hunkered near? Even in daylight, I feel the hush
and sigh of its breathing. Holstered, ready:
call me the quick-draw master of panic. And here
in my hands two cards: animals holding hearts.
We love you says the unicorn.
We love you says the golden bear.
