Yes, she asked me this. Yes, I do. I ascribe too much to the inanimate. I feel sorry for discarded umbrellas looking like black squids smeared on the sidewalks. I want to rescue furniture and books from the street. Valerie doesn't want me bringing disease into our household. I tell her love will counter any disease.
She's skeptical.
I did a study of a poem about a bell. Yeah, that's right. A bell. Bells are awesome apparently. So I decided to pick an object and write about it. This is what I came up with.
The Whisk
In the drawer, the whisk exists
among her sisters, the mixing
spoons, the spatulas and peelers,
her uncles, garlic press and cork
and her rough distant cousin,
the tenderizer.
Who else turns into themselves
like this? A monochrome rainbow.
She can never hold what she grasps,
she is brisk with all strangers, never
mixes in. To the whisk, the world
is to be stirred.
Without the hand, the whisk is
settled. The invisible heavy
of air sifts through the filaments,
finding no center to contend with.
The drawer is dark and waiting
for the hand.
Later, the cake it makes delivered
by her brother the fork. Laughter
can be the result, even a song
to reward her efforts. In the sink,
lying among the remains of her work,
the remains of joy.
