January 3, 2023

through line **

The fine dust of crumbs where our plates had been. The house, smelling faintly
of nutmeg and pine. We’ve fanned out, now, in various directions. Someone’s off
to the Y to begin a commitment of laps. Another is making a list of all the books
they intend to finish reading. We're picking at leftovers, delaying a run to the market
for the distant, pale cousins of the holiday meals that unclasped the top button of our pants
just last week. We’re thinking of letters we’ve yet to send, phone calls that need returning,
glancing at the lineup of appointments—oil change, dermatologist, haircut—while leaning
toward that other calendar, the one absent of contact numbers in case we need to reschedule.
We announce to a friend, This is the year we’ll do whatever-it-is—because we need to keep
the through line, to hear the old longing rise from our mouths and into the open, waiting air.

** I used one of the lines from last week’s poem to start my poem this week.