Faith

So I read this poem about a rare spice
with an unpronounceable name,
and before I know it, I’m catapulted into sex
and some car crash of emotions,
and I think: Why can’t I
write a freaking poem like that?

Why can’t I come up breathless
like I do from being under the surf for too long?
Why can’t I have a moment in my own writing that gives
me that catch like a satisfying yawn or an orgasm,
that makes me different
at the end than I was at the start?

I want to write the kind of poem
that’s like first love, like being
at a dear one’s deathbed, like trying
a kumquat or dragonfruit,
like salt water surf pounding you down—
undertow—
you don’t think you can breathe
but you’re exhilarated, like a sudden
double rainbow, wet kiss, slot win—

Or that moment when your kid
has more wisdom than you, says something
that makes you beam like YOU’RE the kid
coming home with A report card
or blue ribbon, or jazz tap ovation!

Where is that mustard-seed faith?
Where is the leaven, the gun powder?