Monica Fambrough

You ask for

a box of tissues,

and I bring it.

You ask for

a specific flavor

of Gatorade, and

I bring that, too.

You ask for pills

and thermometers

and quiet, and

these are all

delivered. My little

hands, my wrists

turned up.


Then you recover,

and you ask for

wine and crackers.

You ask for dvd’s

and chocolates

and sex. And this

all seems reasonable



You ask for clean

pajamas and a good

night’s sleep.


You ask for

a day unbroken

by complaint.

You ask for a

morning when

the crows will

just be quiet.

You ask for

the banana

to be perfectly

ripe and the toaster

to toast evenly

and for the yogurt

to need no stirring

at all.


You ask for Paco

not to bark at the

mail carrier. And

so he is quiet. You

ask us all to clap

for Paco. You

ask the sun to shine

but not to glare. You

ask the boats to be

beautiful but not

out of reach.


You ask the humming-

bird to hold still at just

the right angle. See?

His throat is ruby

in the light.

You ask the sugar

not to spill and

the milk not to turn.


You ask the plane

to land safely.

You ask the plans

to go without a hitch.

You ask the blue

not to be unbearable

and the blue says,

yes, and I say yes,

its not too much

to ask.