No One Listening

By Catlyn Fendler

No one listening would ever guess
what the water in the kettle goes through
as it comes to a boil
The scientists think they have it pat
but who put all that air inside the bubbles?

And why the only answer I can think of
is to put this heated mystery
floating with dry weed
the scent of lavender and cinnamon
in front of you with a little slap
of china upon saucer
as if to wake us up
to this one and only moment
we can look into each other’s eyes
and finally see

It’s impossible to stop it
once the real starts rolling toward you,
a runaway boulder,
river, train—

The thing about getting flattened
is how it irons the false out of you
presses you down to pure
density of cloth, crushed
bone, creased skin
a disc of essence in the morning light
easy to lift as a plate
on which to offer
this sacrament of wonder
this blessing of not knowing
what’s next

Categories: Issue 6, Poetry | Leave a comment

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