On Leaving My Daughter At Daycare

Outside myself, so a mind

and a tongue and a throat

and two rows of crooked teeth

call out into late August

for some reprieve from existence,

but don’t get it twisted

//

I do not want to die

or you to see me die

in a poem where the number

of beautiful things happening

outnumber the terrible things, and

if you rolled your eyes

//

at the sundressed women

flipping gold coins into a mall fountain today

I want you to hit a string of sixes

and shout yahtzee!

into the oblivion I hope

does not precede death

//

for I want to be aware

of my daughter’s hand

patting the crown of my head

as she does now at four years old

having learned galaxies

of grace in the time I’ve failed

//

to remember even the most basic

conversational Greek. Color.

The Greek word for Color.

There, in the mind's thistle,

next to knowing how to leave, and

//

walking home, how does anyone look

at the symmetry of a public garbage can

and not feel worthless as the butter dishes

fallen at its feet? How can I not

//

pick them up, take them

with me, wash them in the sink

with this new purple soap,

with these worthless-

magnificent hands

I’ve recently perfected

in my daughter’s daycare window

//

how to curve into a heart?