light filters easily sweeping into the plum tree orchard,
refracting across kitchen window panes
and my iguana says, "the dishes need to be washed, darling."
"I have a papercut," i whine. "this is why we should get a dishwasher."
but my iguana climbs to the windowsill, pressing paws (claws?)
against the glass, and says "no, darling, the heavy-eyelidded smell
of plums and slow morning light can be soap and water."
"Nothing is strong," i reply, "enough to cut
through this dough, sticky
and raw."
my iguana laughs in her rude little chuckle, "aren't we feeling
philosophical today?" she asks and leaps through
the gaping-open window on to a nearby plum tree.
"no", i say, my voice tinged with detergent i do not have: "you
are feeling too poetic today. there is a time and place
for poems, and this is not there or then."
"so where and when?" my iguana muses as she stretches, sun-bathing.
"where forever seems like seconds, snakelike
clock hands losing meaning. when the days bleed
together like plum juice, age and sense
the jaws that partake."
but it seems my iguana is already unlistening, munching
lazily into plum tree leaves and scribbling out her poetry notes,
as i sponge the dirty dishes, and let all the leftover water
whirlpool into the drain.
Points: 222
Reviews: 51
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