[After a weird "why/because" assignment]
Why do I feel lost?
Why do I feel broken? Am I a sweater poorly sewn?
I am dropping berries, one by one,
into the front of my shirt - my billowy basket -
but they fall as I walk through the wet grass
and all I have to show
is the red ripe drool right near my hip.
The slugs are out in earnest
after a weeklong catharsis of rain.
They die in quiet piles, shrouded by steam.
"I'll call," you say, blowing into a coffee saucer,
fingering a packet of sugar, looking rather anxious to leave.
I hope you take some pictures
on the Provincetown boat.
Keep your camera safe from the saltwater.
At your departure,
there's a tickle of ecstasy in my throat,
like a beer coming back,
because we recognize ourselves in whales.
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