Dealing or Not Dealing Well with Sadness

Pygmy woodpecker, olive-backed
sunbird, dusty-headed bulbul; tree
sparrows that we call maya—I pack
mung beans into plastic pouches,
lentils into jars. I wonder about 
places where other selves might fold
over and over, like happiness 
afraid to show itself. The future 
is most recently a dream of hammocks
floating into the sea. If everything 
has a seam, is that the place
of its doubling, or of its undoing? 
In the heat, even the faint lines
of flood watermarks shimmer. I eat
down to the salt in a bag of chips  
but leave the end piece of bread 
in the bag. I am cellophaned in swoon,
particled in histories stretched taut
like webs I walk into without seeing.   

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