From the window the moon, like a flower,

suspends from an edge
the way sometimes
we hold our breath—
what is coming? what new
uncertainty lies ahead?
My heel brushed against
the cold porcelain rim
of the tub where the flat
body of a roach lay
upside down. That slight
feeling papered my day
as I made several calls to find
a therapist for my child,
as I revised the stations
of routine and improvised.
In the waiting times
I tore the wilted leaf
off the blue orchid
in the pot and set
the timer to cook
brown rice. Where steam
escapes it is important
to keep the valves clean.
Fingerprints, yes.
But barely a trace
of humidity on the glass.

1 Comment

Leave a Reply