Sara Moore Wagner
I wince when I pass the boarded up
Taco Bell, just because the road
is different now. I have an instinct
to make schedules. Here is what we’ll do
each day: the same thing,
like the books say.
This is how you make a child
happy—consistency and routine.
We wake up and I make toast
with strawberry jam. I wash my hands.
There are so many birds and, sometimes,
someone discovers a new bird or a new
kind of cheese, just like that. The world
turns and the day flips over. We read books
about focusing on the now, fighting
that little quiet cricket in our chest,
that long-legged crane fly hatching
so delicate. Something is coming:
bouncing fish on the bottom of the sea
floor. Dear God.
I want to name each new
thing and each star like they are mine,
as mine as any day is mine to map out
to make understandable and abiding
as a map, as a book, as a compass pointing
always somewhere. God.