More than anything,
I want WiFi.
I want WiFi so I can
access more than the few things
I scattered through nine hundred
square feet of newly explorable
terrain. (It’s wide open but already
I want more. Typical).
More than a small folding table,
two chairs. One typewriter.
Two small Tupperwares
of dead bugs, a modest
but growing collection.
A box labeled “china” which
in another chapter may
have meant the country
but in this one means
the fine. The breakable.
All our blooming orchids
for which I’m now solely
responsible. I consider
addressing them directly.
“Don’t die on me.”
One small suitcase with
ten days of clothes, a start
until the rest arrives.
The parts to a blender.
The parts to a food processor.
The parts to a stand mixer.
So many parts in pieces scattered
in a foreign and light-filled kitchen.
Parts that pick up from yet-another
chapter, one filled with cooking.
But not this kind of cooking.
Commerical cooking.
A sharp inhale of memory.
My arm twinges.
The intensity still on slow release
in my forever ready-to-spring body.
Flashbacks from the French
meaning to prick or sting—“Yes, yes.
I’m still here. No, I didn’t mind
waiting. Yes, it was a long hold.
Sure, I’ll check the connection.”