Every spring I look up the word “herbarium”
and consider making a flower press or buying one
from someone on Etsy and then later I open a book
and bits of dried plant fall out. Desmond opens Richard Scarry’s
Cars and Trucks and Things That Go and a mostly
flat, mostly-dried wildflower called “hairy vetch”
falls out, and I can only tell him it’s hairy vetch,
which is of course funny, because someone told me.
I mean I was gathering the vetch from the yard in front
of the church down the street, the one near the community
garden on New Hampshire Avenue, and someone called
to me from their car. “I think it’s hairy vetch,” he said.
I gave him the blank stare I give when I’m tired and
someone has unexpectedly done something kind.
If you haven’t slept well in years then questions about
what you have time for or whether sex is better than
sleep or whether sex or joyful activities like gathering wildflowers
can be part of any kind of revolutionary strategy
–those questions feel defeating. I did once cry reading Guy DeBord
on the bus to New York but I was very young and
already certain that my life was over, as it is every spring,
when I mostly ignore my body’s physiological response
to sunlight, rebirth and resurrection and instead
turn on my computer and meet the deadline. I’m being
extra sad about wage work for the sake of the poem,
and I really am that sad, but most of the time I’m fine.
I mean I’m ok with the fleeting nature of existence. It’s fine.