a certain weight

conscious of my chewing (kale salad with pieces of mashed sweet potato) in the
silent kitchen just after
10pm – the dinner i found waiting for me on the counter
with a plate covering the top of the bowl and tongs
poised for the taking
as i slipped in through the door late, from this
and that.
and now im eating with my fingers out of the small blue bowl with shades of black and copper that i made (last November) and i’m on my fourth serving of kale salad because of how (small) the bowl is and how
(fluffy) the kale is.

as i am chewing

the light on upstairs of e grading papers and the pink glow from ro’s room (late night newsletter writing) and the empty space of knowing that f is still out on her first 24 hour shift (at the new hospital) all combined
(not to mention the weather forecast of frost) translates

to a feeling of a certain weight

weight of arriving
to a quiet house,
of identifying everyone in a place, their place,
of feeling a part
and apart (at the same time)
washing the bowl out in the sink, rinsing my
hands and
turning off the light over the stove

things/ways to make a home

how I am struck
with tenderness towards the
arrangement of objects
that i’ve just arranged on the
small white shelf of a
small white bookcase,
as i step back to look at how it appears from
further away

a bell, a glossy brown seed of a lucuma fruit, a rusty metal figurine of kokopelli, a watercolor of a purple cloud, a letter, handkerchief, poem, feather, harmonica, a shell

how i am looking at the list I made four days ago: things/ways to make a home,
feeling good that i had done many (if not all?) of the things i had written in just a few hours, but wondering if they are actually enough

                  make some kind of arrangement of sentimental objects
                  write every night
                  arrange special lighting (candles?)(good lamps)
                  have a meditation spot/writing spot
                  hang up poems/ art
                  ferment some vegetables

the way the tiniest piece of dried sage
burns in the new room
in the new house
and i gently wave it around the scattered piles of clothes whose places i haven’t yet found

i brought some home

into my groundlessness when I bought a chicken,
bulb of lemongrass,
three carrots,
celery, and an
onion, to cook up a broth to lift up any road-weary bones.

sipping on sunshine.

Then I borrowed a bicycle,
panniers,
a stove,
a map, and an
extra pair of socks, and rode across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County.

Two nights in the redwoods,
one swim in the ocean,
can of sardines,
two avocadoes and a package of rye bread
a turmeric stained spoon and too much
couscous.

I turned off my phone when it was almost dark, and listened to the ways the sounds changed as the light faded. I yawned. I was so tired
of street lights and
crowded subway cars and the way my
shoes sounded when I walked fast on the concrete and too many
text messages.

I meandered along the river, and watched the stars peek out through the tree canopy. Then I wiggled into my sleeping bag, sinking into the bed of pine needles and leaf litter, and wrote letters to you

and you
and you
and you

and drew a picture of my tent nested in the trees. I yawned.

It was so hard to rest in the city. It was so hard to sleep with the fluorescent bulbs streaming through the windows. The loud voices. The running. I told myself to soak up the redwood wisdom and engrain the stillness of the trees into my skin. open up my pores.

you can bring this anywhere!

I brought some home.

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