Distillation
a poem
if I distill my life down to moments
a cup of coffee at 7 am
its bloom of steam
drifting above the dark liquid —
like fog —
the shock of cold air against sleep-warm skin
when I take the dog out, door slamming,
frozen rain clicking
against the ice-crusted driveway,
then I can move forward
only then
is this a life —
this collection of disposable days,
untethered from past or future?
is this meaning?
my grief makes me whither and hide
it erases my purpose
like a hand reaching down
smearing the careful construct
of my better self
there’s comfort selecting a moment, separating it
if only to watch it dissolve into the next one
there’s reassuring certainty
in the unraveling
I recognize the freedom
in these isolated days
if not deep satisfaction
(never that)
I’m knitting each new row of stitches,
then undoing all the knots
so there will be no warm blanket
no striped scarf
no bulky wool hat
nothing to show anyone in the end
eventually, even the yarn disintegrates —
as if it never existed at all
