The Mystery

by Hari B. Khalsa

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.