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.

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