She says, How are you?
And there is no right way
to answer this. Tell her, Fine,
and she can smile and you
can smile and move on
to the business at hand.
Or tell her, Oh, you know,
and shrug, and then ask
about her day. There are
waterfalls inside you,
steep icy roads, sirens,
tall golden grass as far
as the eye can see,
and for every moment
that you might mention
to her—when he did this or they
said that, or you knew
whatever it was that you knew—
there is all the space
between those moments,
that space perhaps even
more important than
anything that happened.
How you felt the world
dissolve before it returned.
How everything spills,
ravels, pours out. It’s truer
than anything else you know.
But how do you say this?
So you say, Fine. Or you don’t.
You say, well, there’s no way
to say what you will say.
So you open your mouth,
wondering if a black bird
or a beetle or a little lie
or your heart might fly out.