I.
I used to confuse coffee grounds
with the dirt in flower pots,
the earthy scent overtaking
the musky flowers.
A bird nest lies on a shelf in our garage.
I do not have the heart
to close our garage door at night,
to move the nest:
the blue eggs unhatched,
cushioned in the leaves—
unable to escape
their home.
II.
More pressure, my teacher says.
I tilt my index finger,
clasping the bow
skimming the strings of my violin.
The amount
the bow hair should bounce
ingrained in muscle memory.
Increase the bow speed.
I find
the fine line
between a gritty sound
and the tip of my bow flying
off the strings.
The rosin puffing gold dust
onto my music sheets,
onto the black lines, the swirls
of the clefs and key signatures,
the stickiness
finding homes in crevices
made by the screws
in my music stand.
III.
I trace the patterns
of rock on my shower wall
I once believed
told my life’s story.
I saw my cat, grey stripes
curled in a ball,
pressed
into the tiled wall.
Arbitrary like a raffle,
fate carves into the rock
with the right set
of sharp tools.
IV.
When I was six,
I dreamt of a crimson path.
Barefoot, I walked on eggs—
red, runny yolks.
The eggshells poking my feet,
the path has no end.
Oyster Bay, NY
Worcester, MA
