Sanity

I do kind gestures. Remove my appendix.

I put my ear to a flat shell and—nothing.

I play the lottery ironically. Get married.

Have a smear test. I put my ear to the beak

of a dead bird—nothing. I grow wisdom

teeth. Jog. I pick up a toddler’s telephone,

Hello?—No answer. I change a light bulb

on my own. Organize a large party. Hire

a clown. Attend a four-day stonewalling

course. Have a baby. Stop eating Coco Pops.

I put my ear right up to the slack and gaping

bonnet of a daffodil—. Get divorced. Floss.

Describe a younger person’s music taste as

“just noise.” Enjoy perusing a garden center.

Sit in a pub without drinking. I stand at the

lip of a pouting valley—speak to me!

My echo plagiarizes. I land a real love plus

two real cats. I never meet the talking bird

again. Or the yawning hole. The panther

of purple wisps who prowls inside the air.

I change nappies. Donate my eggs. Learn

a profound lesson about sacrifice. Brunch.

No singing floorboards. No vents leaking

scentless instructions. My mission is over.

The world has zipped up her second mouth.