USA

janet@pgwg.com 

Blue Bowl

It is the same
blue bowl he cradles in his arms.
The same wire whisk
he strokes the bowl’s deep blue sides.
The same rich cream
he bubbles slowly whipping more and more.
There he was, whipping cream
by hand in our only bowl
for blackberry pie,
purpled fingers flashing,
fluttering in Nina Simone sultry tones—
when I was fresh
from New Zealand cream, there he was.

Twenty years more and last night,
his long arms circled,
held close the same
blue bowl. I made clafouti
with eggs from our
silver wyandote chickens,
honey from Gail,
kiwis and raspberries
from last summer’s garden,
cream he whipped, and
Nina Simone from the record player,
"I want a little sugar in my bowl"

When I listen

to your words, my ears
focus on the specks
of your meaning—
the cells and debris
in the eye’s vitreous humor
are normally too close to see
but I have developed the knack

for focusing out the distant
and seeing them only
float up, sink slowly
with each blink.

I try to listen on the surface
but each word submerges me
to its own depth—
feet or fathoms.

I peer through the microscope
at the droplet of your sentence
on the glass slide.
I turn the knob to adjust the focal point
below its meniscus.
I sharpen in and see the amoebas squirming.
I refuse to drink the whole cup

© All Copyright,  Janet Norman Knox.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.