Posts Tagged ‘frames’

It happened once. I was drowning,
held under by a keeper hole
in a rapid on the Salmon.
The light streamed through
the river’s surface and I watched
as it bent and streamed
through the roil and churn.
I thought, so this
is what it is like
to be in a washing machine.
And then I thought,
so this is what it is like
to die. And I was not at all scared,
not until the hydraulics spit me out
and I was pummeled and lashed
and battered by waves.
So how could I now say
that I will not think of pomegranates
or how scorpions mate?
How can I say I will not recall
who did the dishes tonight or
the name of the boy who
in sixth grade pinned me to the floor
so his friend could kiss me and how I cried?
I’m loathe to think about what
I might not think about for fear
of creating that frame—the one the brain
retains. Like the time when Janine
told my son not to drop her earring
into the cauliflower soup. In an instant,
he dropped it right into his bowl,
his neural circuitry wired by her words.
Tonight it is enough to know
that the dishes are done. That scorpions do
whatever scorpions do to procreate,
regardless of my ignorance.
And the orange beside me is ripe, so ripe
it weaves itself into the poem in the place
where the pomegranate would be.
The washing machine is quiet now.
And if I were to die right now, my last thought
would be of not wanting to think
about how much I have hurt you.

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