It’s in here somewhere, shaking, out of sight—
this gratitude I keep alive for me
that’s terrified by recognition’s light.

See!

It cowers, there. Don’t get too close; it bites,
a mangy mix of actuality
surviving off mere scraps of sacrifice,
resilience, sense, and stale tenacity.

My family gets first dibs on hearty foods.

I feed their inner praise with love-steeped roe,
exotic sprigs of righteousness in bloom,
and loaves of patience-risen sourdough,
ensuring that aplomb is absolute—
oh, look! My gratitude is nearly grown.