So many friends I’ve caught beautiful, not knowing it,
cursing me in the snow or fumbling shirtless through
cabinets for the last sachet of tea. Their petulance
an unlikely ornament. It is easier, I suppose, to wrap
myself in myself. The root of us, alone a lot. So I cook
near-naked by the kitchen window. I try so hard
to get caught. But nobody looks up while they walk
home to whatever awaits them. Not me, not this soup
of lemon and leftover stock. Perhaps the television, left on
since morning, the newscast too loud, never- ending.
Perhaps a note that says I’m leaving. I’ve gone out and left
the stove on for hours at a time, many times. Somehow
nothing’s caught fire. But I know how luck is finite,
quantifiable, and this knowledge is an under-the-skin
feeling, like being watched. Like being told how lovely
I look, bathed in the light of my own life, burning.