Re-

             Someone once told me to repeat I love you 
cheapens it, so I let it grow scarce in my mouth 
                           for a few weeks. It overflowed anyway. 

            I love you I said to the pothos, to the pillow cradling 
my head, to eight o’clock and the well-timed good hair day.                                      Silence repeated back at me, but 

            I’ll take unreciprocated love over none. 
Stop me if I’m repeating myself, we always say, 
                           but we all embroider the same stories. 

            What else repeats? Hydrangeas, stairs, emails, bullets, 
orbits, hahas, diamonds, pain, bricks, whys, apologies, 
                           feathers, work, days, cherries in a bowl, 

            windows, eyes, villanelles, fans, shadows. 
Scientists say a result must be repeatable and reproducible 
                           to count as a truth, but it’s also a reproducible truth 

            many of us like a good surprise. 
We have to hear something seven times to absorb it, 
                           a podcaster once said. Later I learned it’s a number 

            also used as a marketing principle for ads. 
Rep after rep, one habit displaces another. 
                           Even bacteria can be trained to anticipate 

            a flash of light. Even the Mississippi River 
has rewired its path to the Gulf by miles 
                           over the millennia. When someone says, 

            Take it from the top, I think, 
here’s a chance to change. Not like a meteor 
                           careening into a planet or a butterfly 

            shattering its chrysalis, but a slower distortion— 
seven more seeds taking root and grasping the earth, 
                           seven more pages dogeared and turned. 

            Seven more pauses to let the other speak first, 
seven more layers of paint daubed onto the surface, 
                           the light ripening on the canvas.