The Space Between Us
"We are making a cake." she said.
Home from work, I had walked into the kitchen towards the intermittent sound of pounding.
I could tell by the hunch of her pale shoulders as I entered the room
by the twisted whisp of errant hair, by the flour spilled on the floor:
she didn't want me to ask any questions.
The sun through the windows cut hard squares of yellow light
against the counter-top, the floor, her form.
Despite the heat, all the curtains were drawn back
and I could see the streaks and smudges from past rainstorms on the panes of glass.
I felt a sudden urge to run;
the sense that I had wandered somewhere I was not meant to be;
the primal feeling that I was alone in a room with a dangerous animal.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
She stood there, her back still turned to me,
I could tell she was crying, and had been crying when I came in.
The smell of almonds hung heavy in the air
and I knew I should reach out,
I knew I should place my hands
-warm, rough and strong -
upon her smooth, freckled, and slightly shaking shoulders
but I could not will myself just then to move.
Instead I asked, "What kind of cake?"
I could see the recipe book, with it's white&red checked cover,
lying open on the counter,
the sun making a hard delineation across one page,
and I could see that she was making an almond cake,
but some part of me felt the need to ask.
Small motes of flour rose in the sunlight.
The air in the kitchen was otherwise lambent and still.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot
and then continued pounding fresh almonds into pieces.
Her hands suddenly stilled, as if she had remembered something,
and seemed to be spotlighted by the unyielding light.
I began to form another question, one final unwanted question.
I took a step towards her then, as if my feet had a will of their own
and I was no more than a hands-breadth from her, reaching out -
she spoke, "You dont need to help."
- my hands frozen in mid-action hovered just above her shoulders,
I retracted them slowly.
My mouth was suddenly dry and I felt the need to lick my lips.
She said, "I'll be ok on my own."
I took a step back,
then another.
By the time I reached the door,
I was running.
despite the fact that i am two weeks behind on other art-theme projects, this week's theme seemed to draw my focus more than the others. this poem-story is based off of the chosen theme:
"White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk."
from Dance Figure by Ezra Pound
If you want to participate see this entry and this entry. If you are not a friend of guessthejess you should be.
Home from work, I had walked into the kitchen towards the intermittent sound of pounding.
I could tell by the hunch of her pale shoulders as I entered the room
by the twisted whisp of errant hair, by the flour spilled on the floor:
she didn't want me to ask any questions.
The sun through the windows cut hard squares of yellow light
against the counter-top, the floor, her form.
Despite the heat, all the curtains were drawn back
and I could see the streaks and smudges from past rainstorms on the panes of glass.
I felt a sudden urge to run;
the sense that I had wandered somewhere I was not meant to be;
the primal feeling that I was alone in a room with a dangerous animal.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
She stood there, her back still turned to me,
I could tell she was crying, and had been crying when I came in.
The smell of almonds hung heavy in the air
and I knew I should reach out,
I knew I should place my hands
-warm, rough and strong -
upon her smooth, freckled, and slightly shaking shoulders
but I could not will myself just then to move.
Instead I asked, "What kind of cake?"
I could see the recipe book, with it's white&red checked cover,
lying open on the counter,
the sun making a hard delineation across one page,
and I could see that she was making an almond cake,
but some part of me felt the need to ask.
Small motes of flour rose in the sunlight.
The air in the kitchen was otherwise lambent and still.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot
and then continued pounding fresh almonds into pieces.
Her hands suddenly stilled, as if she had remembered something,
and seemed to be spotlighted by the unyielding light.
I began to form another question, one final unwanted question.
I took a step towards her then, as if my feet had a will of their own
and I was no more than a hands-breadth from her, reaching out -
she spoke, "You dont need to help."
- my hands frozen in mid-action hovered just above her shoulders,
I retracted them slowly.
My mouth was suddenly dry and I felt the need to lick my lips.
She said, "I'll be ok on my own."
I took a step back,
then another.
By the time I reached the door,
I was running.
despite the fact that i am two weeks behind on other art-theme projects, this week's theme seemed to draw my focus more than the others. this poem-story is based off of the chosen theme:
"White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk."
from Dance Figure by Ezra Pound
If you want to participate see this entry and this entry. If you are not a friend of guessthejess you should be.