Aliens Wrapped in Ravioli
Gary McDowell
My son just ran into the kitchen to show me
a picture on his phone. Newly born stingrays.
Don’t they look like aliens wrapped in ravioli?
he says. The sunlight slides down the living
room walls, and the robins and mourning
doves peg grubs and worms from the freshly
mown lawn. But he’s right, they do. There is
almost the entirety of the world in him. He
thinks he knows everything, as we all do when
we’re newly learning how much there is to know,
but to move into consciousness, he needs
to talk, hear himself say the things he’ll one day
understand are buttresses to deeper, more
considered understandings. It’s not that he’s
wrong. Humans have been wrong for as long
as we’ve been human. The world is flat. Earth
is the center of the universe. Fire is brought
by the gods. Death is unnatural, accidental,
avoidable. For the first time in my life, I saw
a bird—a bluejay, last fall, dusk nipping at
the afternoon—drop from the persimmon
like a stone lobbed into a pond, but rippleless.