And the day itself shivers
and you surrender to a deep, deep wish
to touch an arm—just just an arm—
a sweaty one or one with brown curls
of hair—not the most receptive limb
but robust, capable of lifting an oak dresser.
What if on Tuesday your most remembered act
was scraping and sanding an old night-stand—
Tender application of paint named Earl Grey,
renewal with a small foam brush.
What if you see things backwards,
perceive land as blue and mountain green—
What if the blue swale and the red-rumped
ewes and the inverted mountain are not
the bounty of your imagination
but signals that your lived day is too lean.
Kathryn Weld is Professor of Mathematics at Manhattan College. Her poetry and prose have appeared in American Book Review, The Cortland Review, Midwest Quarterly, The Southeast Review, and elsewhere s. Her chapbook is Waking Light from Kattywompus Press (2019). website