napowrimo day 7
A twist of salt
Jet streams garland the trees
another plane every 15 minutes
another day I haven’t gone anywhere.
Or is it year? Foreign phrases rust
on my lips. That taste of morning air
and kalimera-good morning.
My husband loves the Italian phrase,
buon giorno, and uses it all times
of the day. I try not to flinch. I have
known less. I want that rush: language to acquire,
not knowing how to ask, ‘which way?’
or the simple word for egg. I peeled
them walking to the Acropolis. How does
such a small segment of time stay in you
like this? To be where you have longed,
your whole life, to be. Good,
we all drape our days with good. Bien, buon, buenas,
kali. Good. Be good. Good day. Good to meet
you. Good night. Dream. Days
without anyone saying my name.
What did I understand? The light
as it broke between pale marble and crumbling
plaster. My daughter sights another plane, points
and calls until I look. She would say, ‘be here’
if that phrase were in her lexicon.
Today’s egg was good. All of it.