I sit in an upstairs room of my husband's parents' house. My coffee cup is empty but I'm afraid of waking the others. The windows have waves of frost in their perfectly square panels, and I am craving a Clementine. Badly. I want to peel it, section it, bite the section in two. I want to wonder if I should have another and then I want to peel that one too. The clouds are so thick, the day feels still yoked to the night. In his childhood bed, my husband sleeps. I wonder what dreams he has.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Morning Again
I sit in an upstairs room of my husband's parents' house. My coffee cup is empty but I'm afraid of waking the others. The windows have waves of frost in their perfectly square panels, and I am craving a Clementine. Badly. I want to peel it, section it, bite the section in two. I want to wonder if I should have another and then I want to peel that one too. The clouds are so thick, the day feels still yoked to the night. In his childhood bed, my husband sleeps. I wonder what dreams he has.
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2 comments:
Nice writing there. The sense of solitude, the cold, the imagined (real) sweetness of the clementines. In Ron Padgett's new book, there's a poem about the plums that takes on Williams for not apologizing to the reader as well since he makes us want the plums too. Now I want a clementine but the refrigerator is full of them so I'll go downstairs and get one.
I miss your words my sister...
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