Find Me at Home

Find me face down in the dirt.
We are young, and we are eating
basil from pots with wet hands.

It starts like every other daydream.
I am sick with the flu. I am eating tomato soup.
My spoon mixes with herbs; I am wrung up
in the sensuality of my own world.

But I have known earth!

Let me tell you about flat ground,
bitter grapes, dead mice
I have felt puddles,
and hands on backs on
back porches,
and girls who are sick so often,
they think the world is sick with them.

Find me walking past the house, wishing I were naked.
And find me staring at ceilings,
lying on furniture the color of
my own backyard.

I have known beauty
before I could know myself.

When we go back, I think early autumn
is muddy. I think my mother is breathing,
and she is warm and near.
I wash my god-given hands
in her kitchen sink.

And when all but I remain,
find me face down.