we were walking, (the early 90's, I wore velcro sandals
and a dress with sunflowers) and at the old
Mrs. Baird’s there was a delivery truck idling
by the curb and the air so full of the reek and rise
of diesel and warm yeast, it smelled like earth and
home and highway and hunger and full and everything
was heavy beneath my breastbone all at once and
I breathed it in till my ribs ached. I had no words, then,
like ‘Totality’ or ‘Existence’ or ‘Paradox’ or ‘Evocative’
or even ‘Longing’ only the familiar shapes of is, and am, and be,
and was, filled.
Oh my, I am there. I'm holding that little girl's hand on Mockingbird in a red dusk. There's bread in the air and wine in the sky. I feel her fingers flex up alert in my palm. Looking down I see her breathe in till her braids quiver, then she gives an airy snuff like Rabbit and her velvety face furrows. She suddenly skips; I want to make cinnamon rolls so the hand in mine can hold that sky smell in a Pyrex cup. "Look," I say as we bravely cross over Central, "the birds are having church."
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