Sarah Dickenson Snyder

Making Sense

Isn't that my job, to be fingers

touching sound and paint what I see

on a forest wall?

I stopped eating meat

because of the blood

and then because I read

about veal: a calf killed,

its whole short life tied

to a certain spot so that no

tough muscle forms

from movement.

And the little flickers

in the glass jar—

were they sending messages

to other creatures,

forewarning of little humans

skipping on night grass,

bare feet silent and cool?

How long I’ve wanted

to capture something,

render the unsyllabled,

put a lid on what I love

as if the small, dark lines

and curves on a page will burst

into the flesh of a ripe peach,

as if my teeth could speak

about the puncture of soft,

furred skin and I am here

with my eyelids wide open

in this marred world,

how it feels

like a paradise

and then a morass.

Focus on the peach,

the tender one I just ate

and know you know

how good it was.