The Real Thing

by Leonore Hildebrandt

The real thing is abundant —
like wind gusts on the mountain.
An ocean so cold, it grips the swimmer’s wrists.
A trail clamoring up through a boulder field.
Odetta singing with her eyebrows pulled together,
slamming hard on the guitar — in self–defense, as she put it.

The real thing does not need attention — yours, mine.
It’s unmistakable even when claimed by dueling parties.
Like graffiti.
The ring of a hammer.
Sweat.
The real thing knows how to dance in a dark night.

And there is you, my love —
solid as igneous rock —
you do not render the world
sunny–side–up or over–easy.
Your calm is the real thing.
Sometimes the real thing is hidden.

Sometimes the real thing is sad.
It slumps on the floor, crying.
It says it needs a break from being real —
too much pressure.
Call the doctor, quick. Talk to it.
Wrap your arms around it.

Nothing is too small to be the real thing.