Call It a Day by David Roderick

Some wise creature
once said that a child doubles her father’s vision,
so the snakeskin will be accounted for, filmy and useless,
and the sky will glow “like a sea built of fire,”
and the birds will never feel
pessimism or crave coffee.
A favorite meal we prepare in this kitchen
is chicken with crispy oven fries.
In this kitchen awe defeats fear
so are you, anxious friend,
one of pinecones or one of the leaves that will fall?
Did you know that winter insects are female,
or that scientists snipped a mouse’s heart,
a heart that then healed all on its own?
It’s probably true we’re in a century of anesthesia
and amnesia, but I swear to God I’ve heard
a kid in our yard say
that ants talk by dancing,
and I witnessed myself our goldfish, Sparkleglitter,
carried to a hole by the fence for a solemn prayer.
Children have led me to burrs,
mushrooms, maggots, prickers, and scat.
Once to a hummingbird nest.
Once to a Jerusalem cricket clapped in a cup.
Awe, so much awe
I’d argue that every day is a weed
in a jar on our counter,
that this acorn in Olivia’s hand
contains twenty million future oaks, potentially.

David Roderick is the author of Blue Colonial and The Americans. From 2017-2019 he wrote the weekly “State Lines” poetry column for the San Francisco Chronicle. He lives in Berkeley, where he co-directs Left Margin LIT, a creative writing center and work space for writers.