the sky — the sky

Emily – now I get it – no psychology here
no diagnosis – no problem of the mind.
It’s eggs and flour
the call to rise – the call to write
before the hemlock’s longest shade.

We close the gate – latch the door
plan a meal for two alone – melt the chocolate
thank the bee for every
sweet and golden thing –
we save our lives.

We circle the table
the garden –
the neighborhood.
We keep safe distance between
us and them and dread.

We walk to feel rhythm in the knees
the swinging arms – the hand wave.
We walk to shout out to neighbors –
How are you?
How are you?
How are you?

In the kitchen the dough grows high and wide
beneath checkered cloth
shaping itself in silent satisfaction.
Air fills with scent of gratitude.
When we cook – we are alive.

I mark the round loaf with knived crosses
put it into the red heat. Outside – a thousand
starlings in flight shape-shift into ribbons
coiled and uncoiled – their winged murmuration –
their black urgency. Today the sky will not fall.