What Happens All the Time

by Marianna Gibson

It came at summer’s tail end: a sunflower

sprouted beneath the birdfeeder.

An accidental thing—a delicate, bright

spot amidst a heap of carcass shells.

It is so pretty, I think, to be across

the finish line of that depravity.

A man’s hand is just a man’s hand

on a supermarket apple.

Who notices, anyways,

these series of almost touches?

Grey sweater. Blue eyes. Chipped

front tooth. Parked two spaces left

of me, buying apples, this faux finish line.

Each week I stand in front of myself

to pray, to catch sight of a goldfinch

at the feeder, to toe the line and ask

if a man’s hand can just be a man’s hand.

What does exist is this: a delicate, bright

thing swelling in the throat,

the choice to let it.