19 January 2014

Couscous, by Anna Polonyi

Keep stirring, you say
Water the temperature of our bodies

The wide-lipped bowl—its edge,
warm from my own hand through the wood.

A path of oil dances,
looping back, swelling home—

Dip your hand into the folds,
you will know when to stop.

Between my knuckles,
light as warm rain on the skin.

You brush the grain evenly with your palm,
as if blessing it, making sure it's alright.

I pour the water in bouts.
Each time it seems: no more.

The ability to take:
there must be an aging like this.

Anna Polonyi

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