Most people slide snugly through like columns in a counter. I drop them in as I'm sorting clean silverware, stacking plates. They spin like clothes in a glass-doored dryer, then teeter atop the others before settling down uniforming. A few refuse to fit. Oddly patterned, too thick or too thin, they bypass the spin cycle, clunk in the return slot. I scoop them out, rest them in my palm. Sometimes, a hint of color or texture grabs me, and I drop my sponge, look closer. Or a glimmer of sparkle tempts me and I scrub, exposing ridges, crevices. Others stagnate in the chambers like dust behind the fridge, under the microwave. Then, when I'm low, I sort, slipping each across the table, into my hand. Sometimes, one will stick to my finger. I'll look closer, begin to rub, find brilliance under the scum. In time, I grow to see some inside out. Alive. Real and raw.
©1998 Jo R. Hawke
Originally published in The Ninety-Eight Poets, edited by W. Scott.
Category: Creative Writing