Sarah A. Chavez
I Count
the bricks in the path: old
bricks, new bricks, broken
bricks, bricks enrobed
in moss.
I count the budding peppers
on the Fresno chile, the purple
sprouts in the potato patch,
the bulbs that have opened
on the star plant, the buds
holding a tight fist, the petals
which have dried & dropped
from the stem.
I count the barks from the tiny
Shih Tzu next door. I count
the number of breathes in which
the neighbor yells, Shut up!
I count the piles of dirt I dug
from the earth, the number
of rocks I pulled out.
I count the mornings I wake
to sunlight and the mornings
I wake to rain. I count the beers
left in the fridge, the boxes
of dinner proteins frozen,
the remaining granola bars
in the big glass jar in the cabinet.
I count the cabinet doors,
the crumbs on the counter, the
specks of dust floating in
from the open window. I count
the whole of these to keep
from counting the days
since you left.
