“I WANTED TO MAKE MYSELF LIKE THE RAVINE”

BY HANNAH GAMBLE

I wanted to make myself like the ravine

so that all good things

would flow into me.

Because the ravine is lowly,

it receives an abundance.

This sounds wonderful

to everyone

who suffers from lacking,

but consider, too, that a ravine

keeps nothing out:

in flows a peach

with only one bite taken out of it,

but in flows, too,

the body of a stiff mouse

half cooked by the heat of the stove

it was toughening under.

I have an easygoing way about me.

I’ve been an inviting host —

meaning to, not meaning to.

Oops — he’s approaching with his tongue

already out

and moving.

Analyze the risks

of becoming a ravine.

Compare those with the risks

of becoming a well

with a well-bolted lid.

Which I’d prefer

depends largely on which kinds

of animals were inside me

when the lid went on

and how likely they’d be

to enjoy the water,

vs. drown, freeze, or starve.

The lesson: close yourself off

at exactly the right time.

On the day that you wake up

under some yellow curtains

with a smile on your face,

lock the door.

Live out your days

untroubled like that.