February 24 1993

My arm a cradle for the wine-marbled journal,
neglected months— my fist—rough embrace
— a dark blue roller pen— left for dead.

A library book tilted against wood grain—
bordering a square grey slate— shared with
another mother writing with purple fountain pen.

Between us, a metal container of light blue, white paper packages— sweetener— in pink letters
the word “Equal.”

Sounds of Spanish guitar seized air above the page.
Our fingers spiraling thought, playing rich rhythms, weaving our children’s lives, textures of personality,

The wonder of their aspirations— two sons, three daughters. Salt, pepper shakers side-by-side— transparent with battered lids.

White flecked substance in Maya’s greying curls,
pure coarse salt, chip of diamond in sapphire ring. Punctuation of broken glass on floor, four tin-foil

Wreaths with red bows on the wall. No evergreen. (Interruption from a work colleague— false smiles,
a revelation, journal, pen also in her hand.

Maya’s fingers keep moving.) I learn to turn my soul. Leaning over the book again— Maya’s blue sweater fringed in gold.