dough

there is always food
when the telephone rings
my hands knuckle-deep
a voice flat and distant

 

four and twenty — december 2011

saturday

wandering around the house
trying to remember
which room, what reason
words written in the air

 
four and twenty — december 2011

friday afternoon
the peacocks strutting
in snow

 

nahaiwrimo — light/dark

creek water slides across the road where it curves into a one-lane bridge. the peacocks are out, and it’s hard to tell which are leucistic and which are just covered with snow. I imagine their missing tail feathers, the unexpected white slowly melting into iridescent color.

I stop to get something I didn’t remember the day before. I forget why I‘m here, distracted by baba ganoush — it’s on sale. waiting to check out, I remember what I forgot and realize that I’ll have to come back again tomorrow because now I need pita bread, too.

ice melts sparrows and doves on the same transmission line

nahaiwrimo — one line

what was cold and immobile is melting, its breath a sigh of fog between trees. it stops me at the corner; it wants yellow lights and slow turns. soon it will be a glimpse of something forgotten, gnawing at the back of my brain when I roll down the window.

the old men talk across the fence, their breath swirling like cigarette smoke. I stop to let their chickens cross and notice the creek. floodwater slips between trees, its edges already wearing a cold coat of ice.

after ikea, I live in a dollhouse-dream of catalog pages. the best rooms are folded-over at the corner and people wander, imagining: this is my flatwoven rug, this is my casually-placed throw. I close my eyes, invisble until they leave.

she is laughing when she says she lost her coat; now she’s angry because I’m angry and we both hang up the phone. I hear a little girl wrapped in a woman’s voice and there is nothing I can do to keep her warm.

the swaybacked mare is in the field, on apple road. I stop –looking for mystical white peacocks or doll-sized bulls– but a car comes up behind me so I have to keep driving.

I want to live here; I’d be home now.

five o’clock seems to center around food and telephones. I let the principal’s sunday evening call go to voicemail. the yogurt is expired, so I smell it and wonder: if I pretend that I’m eating on the other side of the world, will I be ok?

I turn around, waiting for black bean soup, a baguette. she sits at a tiny table reading a book with paper pages. we lock eyes and I know: I’m not the only person buying food for one.

strange winter sun
in my dream, a gondolier
whistles

 
nahaiwrimo — daydream

I shop methodically; in the end, I settle for this blue and white rug. I pay without seeing — pressing familiar buttons with a rote, animal memory. now that I can buy anything I want, I don’t want to buy anything at all.