Jordan Escobar: You can’t have love without labor

I tongue the empty depression
where my tooth once anchored.

Just yesterday, I sat in a dentist office
and watched the pigeons in front

of Copley Square strut about
in their miscellaneous lives. I asked:

Who’s the captain of the birds, here?
I want his name and number. When

I got home, I watered the sprouts
of wildflowers that I planted

in a discarded wheelbarrow. I want
to practice green miracles. I want to

learn how to resurrect a useless life,
like reheating a cold cup of coffee

and the microwave’s chime telling you:
It is finished.

Sip in the garden. Drink again. A little
scotch goes a long way. Song sparrows

chitter their war shanties. I was wiser
when I had all my teeth. I was the petals

thumbing for sunlight. Heavy-handed
tear stains now irrigate my radishes.

I’ll tell you they’re red because of
some deep-rooted affection,

but who knows? Maybe it’s just the blood
I keep spitting from my mouth.