The Pursuit of Human Perfection

The Pursuit of Human Perfection



With eyes closed, reaching into the dishwasher,

hand over smooth and pricking mountains,
curve and point, spoon and fork
unknown to me, feels like
a tactile attack.

I hold the fork firmly, bow my head,
and say a silent prayer —
the woes of here and yesterday,
the cold utensil in hand,
the welcome flash of a baby I kissed
in this morning’s dream —
that same preciousness
transferred to the prayer,
to the clasped fork —
I am metal, and hope
and dream,

I alone converse
with the creator of the universe;
I have also burned black
the toast.



You know those moments where you’re doing something routine, such as taking a shower, or washing dishes, and you mind daydreams? While taking dishes out of the dishwasher, with the sun streaming through the window, I paused and appreciated the simple present of being alive. The final stanza reflects that moment being interrupted, peace and human infallibility coming together.

Leave a reply

Show Buttons
Hide Buttons