Second Nature
The Kashmiri leather of this new journal
has not become creased with use.
The empty pages fan out endlessly
with some potential and some obligation.
I am a pitiful site to behold,
near thirty with much space and little talent.
Yet I have untied the beaded straps
from around the cover with an intention.
I must imprint on these sheets truths and lies
more lovely than the embossing that hides them.
My love stands engaged at the stove,
stirring in spices with a wooden spoon.
In a moment she brings the spoon to her lips
and blows away a wisp of steam.
She knows easily what is needed
and casually takes another jar from the rack.
She would not mar handmade pages
with strike-outs and second attempts.
I think I will begin with the way
yellow curry falls from her fingertips.
4 years ago
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