Little Miracle
by Molly Peacock
No use getting hysterical.
The important part is: we’re here.
Our lives are a little miracle.
My hummingbird-hearted schedule
beats its shiny frenzy, day into year.
No use getting hysterical—
it’s always like that. The oracle
a human voice could be is shrunk by fear.
Our lives are a little miracle
—we must remind ourselves—whimsical,
and lyrical, large and slow and clear.
(So no use getting hysterical!)
All words other than I love you are clerical,
dispensable, and replaceable, my dear.
Our inner lives are a miracle.
They beat their essence in the coracle
our ribs provide, the watertight boat we steer
through others’ acid, hysterical
demands. Ours is the miracle: we’re here.
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