CALL ME BELOVED

I am tranquil and wearing a blissful smile like a beatitude
when my familiar suspicion that I’m doing it all wrong
tinted the preternaturally warm breeze suddenly cold –
much the same way just one small drop of blood
while shaving this morning turned the sink sickly red.

I suspect I’ve forgotten where to look – exactly which stones
to gently overturn to find those fragments and nothings that
add up to a monumental sum – unaccustomed to daylight,
like the nightcrawlers and pillbugs that delighted my
five-year-old afternoons – they lie in the soft dirt just beneath
strangers faces and flower boxes.

the thought nags at me that I used to be better – expert, even –
at bringing them out and turning the mottled grey carapaces
to just the right angle to let the sunlight refract and multiply.