Thursday, March 9, 2017

The Cupboard


The doors of my cupboard
are an insect’s wings,
small, illusive,
and things of flight—
catching light and darkness, swinging
open so everyone can see
what I keep hidden—
the neat Ikea bowls and plates
in orange and blue.

I thought they were relatively ordinary,
as a dragonfly over a lake,
nothing to mention,
but others, with nostalgia, finger them,
running their fingers over porcelain,
and put the bowls on their heads
like Jewish prayer caps—
then parade around,
boasting of plates in bright colours.

Frosted with emotion,
there is nothing in my mind.
It has all been emptied
and pilfered bare by scavengers
who saw a hole in the cupboard door
and helped themselves.

They even tried to put
their own things in my cupboard,
while I practiced meditation
as a skillful cover-up.

Now they fly like insects
on insect’s wings—
tiny, whining, and growing smaller
in the distance.

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