The Mystery
Slowly it strikes me how quiet it is - Sharon Olds
I doze in a chair, book on my chest. Fog outside
the east-facing window. Fire in the stove. I survive
the day with raisins and eyeliner, pomegranate
and white stones placed in the shape of a river.
Tomorrow is a mystery. I forget this and lament
running out of eggs, rain stains on the ceiling, flares
of anger. When I get a dog, I’ll tolerate its dog
smell, paws tracking in dirt, wisps of hair swirling
the floor. I will take its face in my hands, press
my fleshy nose deep into the plush of its neck.
From the poem “Sunday in the Empty Nest” from The Unswept Room.