Originally published in The West Fourth Street Review
copyright (c) 2002 by Anjoli Roy
I’m singing songs of the sliding glass door today A squeaky portal giving way to this way and the next Forever accepting and rejecting the passengers of this dipped dimension . . . this constancy Pots and pans heavy with internal burn wounds The grout sealing the floor together whispering away, heavy with angry words once mimed here Lamented and fermented deep in the foundation of the tiles But I’m still loving the way this house mouth yawns open to the kitchen The way a child loves a negligent parent, hungry for knowledge and education Remembering famished stagnant mouths in the morning Forever peaceful with the knowledge of my father’s cooking coming And my perfect day Is the sun ever so slight creeping in silent steps across the floor Illuminating the orange counter kitchen tiles to an almost scent Vibrant orange when kissed Sun licked like a lover’s look When blood rushes to skin level–blush–Recognizing its own kind–Namaste–You are never more beautiful than when you look at me Citrus nectarine Music playing poorly out of a dust-ridden radio And nothing is as loud As the voices of my sisters Raised in song Beloved misshaped melody.