80spoems/flight

FLIGHT

I spend my life in flight,
soaring with some idea,
and so need a good, strong tether
to pull me back when the air
gets too thin to sustain
life in lofty places.
I’ve tried to do it for myself,
to know when to go out to weed,
to bury my hands in the dirt,
reminding myself of my limitations,
the undeniable realities of mortality.
I drift too far, if I forget to sweat,
do not remember to dwell in my body.
My hand scrubbing a cupboard,
my back straining to push or lift,
a delicate balance of finger around
rose stem, just here between thorn
and leaf, living if not naming
space, this place in space.
I float too high,
if I do not pause
to wipe the counter top
and put away the dishes.
That’s what housewifery is to
me, a means of meditation,
a way of pacing myself,
a language I speak,
a way to tell myself things
I ought to be thinking about.
I do it because I have
to occupy my hands.

1987