Monday

I

When the house starts to vibrate

In anticipation of the night

And the zucchini, breaded and ready

On the baking sheet, neatly arranged,

Waits for its plunge into the Red Sea

I see Charlton Heston as Moses

Spilling marinara sauce on his red robe

Hoping no one will notice

Amidst all the miracles

II

After leaving that house

Towards my bed of down and sleeping dog,

I found I was left with a sweet scent

Somewhere on the right side of my face

Hiding below or just along my jaw line

In secret moments I turned my head

On the unsuspecting scent to catch it,

And each moment was a gift

From a friend I held

Or a leg I rested my head on or

A parting embrace to celebrate

The practice of gathering

It was a sweet soft spice like a nameless

Orange flower with its brown eye staring at the sun,

It was my father's desk drawer

When I asked him for a glue stick when I was five

He kept a salve like tiger balm inside

Which scented the pencils of my childhood,

With which I drew my first picture

Of a dog that would later be asleep on my bed,

With which I practiced my backwards letters

That would later become this poem