40 days of writing. ready. go.

I find myself between

you and our new sheets, between

the unblemished set of pots

and your lean hands scrubbing them,

betwixt and between the manicure I got

before our wedding day and the chipped

opal polish and cracked cuticles.

I study you take in everything.

I want to put our lives between the glass walls

of the blue jar I found to hold the flour,

take it everywhere I go. At the end

of the day I would bring it to you, pour

the powder on the hardwood floor

so you could watch the cloud

of white mystery surround us.