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

slicing through a sweet

my listening to David Whyte speak
through the laptop speaker
from a youtube video,
is truncated by the strokes of my knife on the cutting board
slicing through a sweet potato

         we shape ourselves to fit this world

and i pause to better hear

       and by the world are shaped again

and even though i have never heard his voice before, i can hear my voice in his voice, and what he is saying sounds all too familiar because i
had been the one who recited his poem
for a small open mic, in a library overlooking a lake surrounded by white pines
just in the spring.