Like a goat

in a stall

with a thoroughbred

a truffle sealed

in a plastic

bag

with a dozen eggs

or raw

uncooked

rice. Like

an apple slice

or piece

of bread shut

away in an

airtight container

with brown sugar—

or a small

bowl of water

placed next to

the hardened

lump

and micro-waved,

my god

calms me,

favors me, restores

my softness. I tried

to explain to

my husband

about the love

animals have

for each

other. How,

at Christy’s,

the donkey, “Vinnie,”

herds and

nibbles “Love Bug,”

a white pony who wears

an eye mask, who

just returned from

cancer surgery. The

two of them

in the sun.

The donkey

nibbled my arm

too, but

never bit. Don sat

across from

me in my room

under a poster of Van

Gogh’s “Yellow House,”

his eyes

at half mast.

He couldn’t be

less interested

in my “sacred.”

To be permeated

with God,

I sit with him. I keep

a red zafu on

the floor.

Take

the wait list

letter, for Lucy’s

college, I said

to my husband

and daughter

this morning,

place it

in a sealed

plastic bag

with

an apple core or

dried flower,

wait to open

and there will

be the acceptance

you have been

waiting for.