If you are an animal who roars in my face
or shrinks and cowers like a mouse;
If you paint rose gardens,
or uncover bones with tiny brushes,
or mow lawns;
If you drink and curse and rage like a monster
or tenderly love, and fear your God;
I could even hate you,
It won't be hard:
Can I just tell you every sorry, sparkling thing?
And then--then you tell me
every single little thing,
All your joy and every darkness.
Everything, everything, everything, and I will listen hard for days
Until your lungs run out of breath.
Our throats exhausted,
Bedridden tangles in our hair will explain our mission
when they find us locked in a sad, silent spell
of the only thing left to do: care.
