Page 14 - WTP VOl. VIII #6

7
Peach Salsa
The earth takes my knots
in her muddied hands
and maneuvers them
while someone across the country presses a soup can
to each ear,
delighting in our strange shouts.
I hold my voice in my cupped hands,
the way a child carries an egg on a spoon. My fingers sting along their sides and below the nails.
The salsa was sweet and cool
in all the ways my hurt fingers aren’t.
You would have told me
to wear gloves when I’m chopping peppers. You would have known before I even picked up the knife.
Human Rituals
You walk from room to room, shedding yourself as you do. A rind of fingernail, maybe, or a flake off a wide, plain- tive scalp. The elbow hitches. The breath does not. To touch things—the stainless steel kettle, the worn cup of
a wooden spoon—heals. There are folks sleeping up- stairs, or perhaps in the passenger seat. You sing songs your voice doesn’t have to strain at. Eyelids curve over eyes. I’m sure you want to brush against the lashes, don’t you? It means something, to look for the sake of seeing. You cover the kettle before it can voice its song. We are coming home, and we have all been safe. These minutes, silent and full of an understanding you can prod your tongue at, are the most yours you will ever have.
Jane Donohue