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My face a Band-Aid, ode to insecurity
I think the new intern is smarter
than me the way a lake is wider
than a puddle, naturally and at
ease with largess – throwing back the
whole world in reflection while I
am content with the shimmer of
an oil slick, a greasy rainbow testament
to all my inefficiencies and how I
ached to be more than to lack.
I also think that the cashier is more
competent than I, yes, even the
new girl tonight, who almost dropped
my carrots – but did you see the way
she deftly caught herself and the
little smile of triumph after? If I could
only have that ringmaster’s skill in
front of the lion-crowds.
And the key that fits into the door, when
I come home – do you see how perfectly
it turns, as if made for a purpose (because
it is, yes, I know) but how it lets me in as
well as a dangerous stranger that would
hold it. See, this key is more than me.
Even the kitchen pans have attained
a more nebulous truce and chide me
for holding a periscope to the past, can’t
I just be content as a conduit of heat, need
and chemistry? I seek more than a phoenix
reborn in the shape of a banana bread.
I hear a cry imperative.