Saturday, September 2
STILL LIFE WITH WINDOW AND FISH
Down here this morning in my white kitchen
along the slim body
of the light,
the narrow body that would otherwise
say forever
the same thing,
the beautiful interruptions, the things of this world, twigs
and powerlines, eaves and ranking
branches burn
all over my walls.
Even the windowpanes are rich.
The whole world outside
wants to come into here,
to angle into
the simpler shapes of rooms, to be broken and rebroken
against the sure co-ordinates
of walls.
The whole world outside. . . .
I know it's better, whole, outside, the world---whole
trees, whole groves---but I
love it in here where it blurs, and nothing starts or
ends, but all is
waving, and colorless,
and voiceless. . . .
Here is a fish-spine on the sea of my bone china
plate. Here is a fish-spine on the sea of my hand,
flickering, all its freight
fallen away,
here is the reason for motion washed
in kitchenlight, fanning, gliding
upstream in the smoke of twigs, the rake
against the shed outside, the swaying birdcage
and its missing
tenant. If I should die
before you do, you can find me anywhere
in this floral, featureless,
indelible
surf. We are too restless
to inherit
this earth.
(Jorie Graham)