Here’s a poem I wrote while I sat in my Abuelita’s kitchen in Bolivia. I was moved by all absence of the body’s usual desperation to having to do something.
The clinking of cups as the water washes
Grime, dirt, crumbs of original Bolivian cuisine
Is comforting to one seeking silence.
There is no incessant chatter as the cupboard
Doors swing against chocolate-colored chairs.
The light grating of cloth against a wet plate—
The crackle and crinkle of plastic bags
And the quick tinkle of paired utensils
Beckon any desperately bored ear to Home.
Footsteps pad upon cold unkind cement
To manana’s destination where
Fortitude is a given and hardship a reality.