So, yesterday I decided I would write something. Anything. I needed exercise! And sometimes you just have to start where you are. So if you are in the kitchen, write about the kitchen. And the best thing is you never simply stay in the kitchen. And sometimes things come together in unexpected ways.

I. THE SOUND OF LIGHT

Beyond the kitchen window
past the white horizontal slats
neatly tilted to measure the light,
the public school across the street
turns her back, windowless and bricked,
as though ashamed or in need of privacy.

When the sun

drops below her flat horizon,
the lights flip on and on and on
until she blushes prettily,
institutional, yet fully aware
that beauty is an arbitrary gift.

Seemingly out of sorts with garlic and turmeric
the kitchen’s chrome and glass and tile
remain cool in light of the purpling sky,
and the low white ceiling glows fluorescent
with an almost silent hum.

This time at the end of day,
the world folds inwardly with the precision
of an origami rooster. I try not to think
about crossing the street tomorrow,
about how I must anticipate the cars
rounding the corner, too fast,
forcing me to listen for their approach,
hoping they will see me,
wanting to walk slow enough
to force them to see me,
to force them to brake,
never fully trusting
that the flare of brake lights
will appear in time.


II. LIVING IN THE TWENTY

Just last week
I was wondering whatever happened
to Steven Jackson…

called himself Spiderman…

“Best friend a Spider could have…”
he wrote in my yearbook.

Then Thursday
(why is it always Thursday?)
in the obituaries,
“Steven Jackson,
loved by his family…”

And I started to wonder about living
in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone.

Maybe living here
near the school
has slowed my life
to the point that I am able
to drift from the past
into the future and back,
where I am able to see
the comings and goings
of those lesser aware?

And if I really believe, will I slip back,
back to the time before
remembering…

I have been told I was enthralled
at an early age with the Taj Mahal.
And perhaps in my not-so-special
pale-girl-way I somehow captured
the essence of an Eastern mystic cult…

And I can’t help but wonder,
if I am still enough,
will you come and touch me?
If I can stay in this moment only,
will you try to convince me
I was never alone?

I am waiting for a message. Until then,
I have a jewel glued on my forehead
and I am learning to wrap a sari.

III. THE DISTANCE BETWEEN

No smoke no fire no siren, still
I assumed lightning had struck the tree
three houses down the street.
As I walked back to work,
as I saw the fire truck
skimming the street
as though anticipating a blaze
angling sly and sluggish
its bold, straight form around the corner
like a dated vacuum cleaner
with no ability to turn,
as though its wheels didn’t fit exactly
as though it couldn’t travel naturally
as though unwittingly fire resistant
and unwilling to discover an emergency.

I recalled how the storm had hit in earnest
as I ate my lunch, soup,
slamming itself repeatedly at the windows
as though determined to earn attention,
and how I witnessed, bowl in one hand,
empty spoon in the other,
as the balloons from yesterday’s party
still tied to the table’s umbrella
all exploded in the same second
silent through the pane.

Every time I see you, I wonder
about the distance between your smile
and your intention, and I wonder
if I asked, if you would look at me
with first one eye and then the other
to make me dance.

Look at me quickly then off to the side,
and if you’ve been crying,
or if you squint just right
perhaps some lightning bolts will fly.

Divide by five the number of seconds
between the flash and the thunder
to calculate the distance in miles.