Merie Kirby
PROVERBIAL
I’m as old as my tongue. As happy as the string
of molecules threading the needle of my brain.
If I had a dollar for every time
my patella wiggled in its nest, I’d be as rich
as liquid yolk. With hearing much less sharp
than a porcupine’s quills, I listen for the voices
that set my ventricles humming, as hammers and anvils
vibrate together. I’m as stubborn as callused feet,
as anxious as hair in the wind, as ready to laugh
as the red-eyed loon rocked in the wake of a pontoon
racing sunset across the lake. Hear me warble out
the secrets to a life lived well, carefree
as a freshwater mussel in the rocky muck.