POEM: Morning Sketch


She was chopping cutting slicing
a papaya next to the kitchen sink,
using absolutely no force,
but a sort of clumsy choreography
that had the fruit red-sea-parting
as the blade sunk into it.
It had a steady beat too –
the knife hitting the chop-chopping board steady,
the birds chat-chatting with each other steady,
the leaves of every green thing moving with it,
and I pretended for a second
that it was all there was in the world at 8 AM –

She turned around,
having scooped all the pieces of fruit in a little green bowl,
and offered me some.
There was nothing in that moment, but exactly what it was.
So, I smiled at her, thanked her.