Sep 2016
In the breakfast nook,
the sun falls aslant across
the paper, open to the puzzle,
scones and marmalade and butter,
coffee in white cups on saucers, steam rising,
motes dancing in the rays as he reaches
for the sugar
which is not sugar but stevia
in a pink glass bowl
shaped like an elephant's foot.
The smell of their exhausted *** lingers
like the motes,
detectable through aromas of the coffee,
the sage eggs and salsa fresca,
and the cut grass in the yard.
He feels his terry robe like a weight upon him,
dense and obscure, a yoke
or an anchor - safe
and brilliant white.
Her face never looks more radiant
than in the morning after
the Sunday ritual.
They could have been a sculpture
or a tableau vivant,
just breathing,
feeling the warmth of the sun
on the small hairs of their arms.
the sun falls aslant across
the paper, open to the puzzle,
scones and marmalade and butter,
coffee in white cups on saucers, steam rising,
motes dancing in the rays as he reaches
for the sugar
which is not sugar but stevia
in a pink glass bowl
shaped like an elephant's foot.
The smell of their exhausted *** lingers
like the motes,
detectable through aromas of the coffee,
the sage eggs and salsa fresca,
and the cut grass in the yard.
He feels his terry robe like a weight upon him,
dense and obscure, a yoke
or an anchor - safe
and brilliant white.
Her face never looks more radiant
than in the morning after
the Sunday ritual.
They could have been a sculpture
or a tableau vivant,
just breathing,
feeling the warmth of the sun
on the small hairs of their arms.
This is the first of a series of poems I wrote as the text for the catalogue of a sculpture exhibition by two friends. The poems are interconnected and should be read in the numbered order. While they do not describe, or attempt to explain any of the works in the show, they do draw inspiration from specific pieces. It's too bad those lovely works cannot accompany the poems in this context, but I do believe the poetry stands on its own as well.
