When I pull blankets up to the chins
of my little boys, I knight them.
My husband and I night for hours
and hours erasing bags from our eyes
or worry. Let me night like a flower
under the moon, moved to night
my petals—only when the sun nights.
Last week in India, a rat broke into
a dusty sidewalk ATM and ate over
a million paper rupees. It died after
that spitty wad of bills burst his
protruded furry belly. What did all
that currency give us anyway? They say
salt and ink lined the creases on his paws.
A seasoning becomes a kind of applause,
like smacking your hand on the table when
a meal is so delicious you want to shout,
you can't stop, won't put down the fork
or walk away until you night and night
and night before you finally say you’re full.