Sixth Day

His cry sounds the high notes—
oboe or clarinet—this must be what the poets
mean by reedy. I say. I say: Please
listen carefully as all of your options
 
have changed.
Radically.

For instance— the neglected hibiscus—offering
without water, a flagrant red-orange blossom.
For awe: Press 1
For exhaustion: Press 2

(Both at once for a chord.)
The flower, the baby—

neither expected so early in the year,
in a February so redolent of spring, magnolias,
in their confusion push forth
furred gray buds. But the hibiscus flower

will drop in a day, unlike the baby,
who wakes to nurse every hour.

Your life will never be the same
I want to tell my daughter but she
knows that and anyway—what life is?
she’d likely ask, or—same as what
anyway?