AMONG THE PARTICULARS
From the other room, the door half open,
a ping-pong of voices from the TV.
This room, with its swirling chairs,
clouded light, demanded more than its chill.
No one was expected, except the dream
suggested a visit from her surgeon.
It rose unbidden, the pressure,
the anxiety of following the recipe.
The kitchen, once her assignment,
became his province as the hour-bird sang.
He paid homage to her aging back,
his eyes reflected in the painting’s glass.
The unlit candle in its winding stick,
reliably present, brought her to him.
A turn of his lips, soft flesh at the nape
opened the yes! oh, yes! still pulsing.
Advertisement
