At the still point of the turning world; neither flesh nor fleshless
—T. S. Eliot, from The Four Quartets
Waltzing in the kitchen,
I ask the sauté pan to dance.
It is an awkward affair,
neither of us is really sure
of the steps, neither of us
knows if the other is leading.
In the end, I curtsey. The sauté pan
retires to the stove top
and says nothing. There
is no applause. The music
that was not playing
continues not to play.
The deer in the grass
who did not turn to watch
the strange dance in the house
continue to eat the lawn,
which I know by tomorrow
will seem taller, though
I have never seen it grow.
In me, something so still.
I struggle to name it,
say “nothing,” and I bow
to the nothing, know it as true,
then it changes its name
to “everything.”
There is so much
I don’t understand.
On the stove, the butter
skitters across the pan.
It smells salty, sweet.
The pan and I are partners again.
I lift it by the handle
and swirl it slowly,
then return it to the grate.
I don’t dare be still now,
lest the butter burn.
Whatever is still in me
remains very, very still