Enter the Infinite Rabbit Hole


Symptoms of Optimism




If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you

time is a language I don’t speak.

When I say now, I mean

mañana, chica. Was it yesterday

we were bloody-nosed, holding

our breath for the balloon to come

down, hoping for higher, higher. Maybe

freedom is a ribbon, pinning us to earth.

By nightfall, find me beginning

my descent, clinging sideways

to the ceiling. And how many days

since I’ve touched ground?

Morning, I’ll trickle down. Tomorrow,

I promise. The birds will come.

From Incorrect Merciful Impulses (Copper Canyon Press, 2015).

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