(sister of Martha and Lazarus)
There is a certain art to careless-
ness. I possess
it and it possesses me in the late
afternoon when the sun warms through the kitchen window and the plates
are still dirty in the sink.
I think
it looks better
dirty, and chocolate chip cookies taste better
slightly burnt, still stuck on the pan where
they were several hours ago. The right side of my face is stuck to the table cloth, and I stare
sideways at a pair of salt
and pepper shakers. My silence exalts
these inanimate objects to the status of gods. Nothing else
matters but their form and beauty, suspended in dust particles and sunlight, and the fact that my pulse
beating against the table won’t make
them move, won’t even quake
the scattered granules of salt, small expression
of reciprocal inspiration.
How could I care
less, when I topple these porcelain towers and there,
inside, is nothing at all but salt
and pepper.
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