“I am taking this giraffe to the penthouse. Do you suggest the elevator or the stairs?”
“Why do you choose these complicated tasks to fill your days?” asks my sponsor.
“You think this is beyond my abilities?”
“I didn’t say that. I do believe either you or the giraffe is likely to get bent out of shape. But that is only the most obvious of observations.”
“What if I told you being disproportionate is both of our natural states?" I asked.
“I know that, too. My darling little lamb, you may be a contrast to the multitude, but why make it harder? Why not a ranch with cathedral ceilings? Bay doors even?”
“You are taking out the spirit of adventure,” I say.
“Baby, you may have confused frustration with excitement,” says my sponsor.
“Yes, but you have forgotten the view.”
Put three buttons on a shelf.
I work arithmetic instead of telling you to stop.
I make a light remark and never take a stand
until I have worked the numbers
and believe that the weight of suffering is on my side.
I store in the cellar the salt I found in my wounds
and label it, with names, dates and corresponding critique,
all waiting, hoping, I will never need to disclose them,
but keeping them accounted for just in case things go badly.
I believe there is no chance for error with silence
and no wrong when I have backup in the basement,
but I need to table the salt and risk my reality.
You can’t hurt me worse than I do
when I pour old salt and create new wounds.