Small Acts

I am in the mood where I believe

I could care for plants—yes, I would

not forget to water the ficuses for once.

I would keep a pink calendar on the fridge

and cross off every day I have kept them alive

with a smiley face. I have kept myself alive,

too, and that too feels miraculous

in the most mundane of ways.

No, I can’t cartwheel. I can’t somersault.

I can’t open my eyes underwater.

But last Tuesday I turned a turtle up

off of its back, and that was that.

I was happy. I was happy. I was happy.