And so the poem starts as many others—
at my kitchen sink, as peaches drip down
elbow to drain, bite after bite, my eyes
forward-faced ignoring the task of fruit.
Would so many poems rise from steam and,
suds and peelings if not for this window,
fences, fields of chickory beyond it?
Were there tiles instead—pragmatic grids—my
thoughts might fling against them, with the thud of
wings trying to kiss their glass reflection.
Yet this might not have been my home at all.
I’d been through so many homes—with skylights,
stained-glass windows, glossy trapezoids or
octagons—with other men inside them.