The child tells me, put a brick in the toilet,
don’t wear leather, don’t eat brisket,
snapper, or farmed salmon–-not tells,
orders-–doesn’t she know the sluice gates
were left open and a trillion gallons
wasted just for the dare of it?
Until the staring eye shares that thrill,
confessing: I am just iris and cornea,
blind spot where brain meets mind,
the place where the image forms itself
from a spark–-image of the coming storm.
But the child waits outside the bathroom
with the watch she got for Best Diorama
muttering, two minutes too long.
Half measures, I say. She says, action.
I: I’m one man. She: Seven billion.
If you choose, the sea goes back.
‘Showers’ first published in Poets.org (The Academy Of American Poets)
Excerpted from A Country of Strangers, Alfred Knopf, 2022
← D Nurkse