Surface tension

Surface tension

This is where a finger swipes up

dirty from across a table top --

the cover of a Bible on the

bedside table -- the top of a

ceiling fan blade.

This is where palms fold in

prayer more often than they

fold napkins or clean

clothes or letters into

envelopes --where hands

are washed until the skin

is so dry it peels.

This is where I stood, six years

old, waiting for a spanking

with my face to the white

plaster wall -- this is where

I stuck the penny in the

knob of the closet door

while I waited --it fit so

perfectly-- and forgot I

was waiting.

This --this-- is where we touched,

and for the first time I

was kissed, and I think I

realized then that the

soul must reside in the body,

not apart from it.

This is where we stood in separate

places in the field, and all

spun in circles for thirty

seconds and then stopped --

on the count of thirty --

and ran to find each other

dizzy in the dark, wet grass

soaking our sneakers and the

trying making it harder

to find.

This is where the water

stops, this is

the highest it will

rise before

spilling over

the top -- there’s a

word for that: Surface tension. Meniscus.

This is where it breaks.

This is where the light comes in,

through that crack in the

leaves, through the wires of

the fence, through the

glass of the window into a

sliver on the wall -- one

tiny stripe of light on the

paint is all we get, but

somehow it’s enough

to fill the room.

Christie Flemming