“Animals”

I don’t know who was the best of all Frank O’Hara’s days, who could “manage cocktails out of ice and water,” but when I read this poem, I know who was mine. I see her, she who could make magic out of the dirt off her sneaker, who could spin a forest to a city, any city to any time in history. Alchemist, activist, artist and dreamer. She was a maker, a weaver, the spider and the web, making herself as she made stories and music and games and potion and fire. Every sunrise was for her and every sunset another promise for further magic, another presentation fine and fat on a platter as big as she was, its eyes closed, mouth smiling around the fruit. No measurement, no itinerary, just one clever clever girl and the whole world a meal she’d never finish, and that’s fine. I love this poem because I love to remember the best of all my days, because I am reminded they are still today, she is still here with me taking corners too fast and pulling tricks from our coat sleeves and pockets.

Read the poem here.