I Was Not, Among My Kind, Distinctive

I sat under shelter in downpours—

the chair was light, it could have been easily moved.

I wept into tissues pulled from a box

then threw them away, while

five linen handkerchiefs stayed folded inside a drawer.

I stood with fireflies any night I was able.

I fed the world’s mosquitoes who fed the world’s bats.

My left hand believed it could hold my right

when the hammer.

My right hand believed it could hold my left

when the fire.

I failed to measure how many steps it took

to walk my heart’s wanting back to front,

though I paced it over and over.

I failed to reach my sister’s hand before she died.

I excelled in forgetting my failures—

for I, too, was a mammal, eager for simple happiness,

to be stroked the length of the back, behind the ears.

Distractions: ordinary. Omissions: rampant.

Thinking any of this peculiar to me.

No, I was not distinctive, among my kind.

Showered with pollen, I sneezed.

I ate, and by morning found myself once again hungry.