Boiling Water

1 December 2013

– after Emily Dickinson

There’s nothing to shatter
on this evening. The window
is open, the neighbours may look.
With my mouth held shut
I fill the saucepan. Black marks,
once boiled-over, flake into the water.
I dwell in possibility,
nothing rarely happens unless
it’s passed through the lips.
My body faces the stove,
the saucepan rests over flame,
I want to boil down my thoughts
having sliced them with a knife,
bluntly. I hold my hands over
the aluminum mouth, allowing time
for each line to sink in. The water bubbles,
steam pushes my palms up, warm
and wet to wipe over my cheeks.

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