Strands of spaghetti.
A pot of water rolls and boils.
Sleet taps the window.
Steam freezes on the glass.
I scratch patterns in the ice.
an oyster a pearl
a pirouette in delight
a demure necklace
a stylish afternoon tea
who remembers the oyster?
Your knees in soapsuds
pressed against the green tile floor
your hands red and chilled
the brush catches on a crack.
You yank. The tile lifts. Oh shit.
5 thoughts on “Tanka 289, 290, 291”
#291 is a horror story for me. I had to demolish and then rebuild a bathroom over two decades ago now but I am still not over the stress of doing the tiling. #289 is, despite the suggestion of icy cold, a very cosy poem to me. I like that feeling of doing warming things inside when it is so chilly outside.
Very visceral that last one. It is exactly the fear I had in our first home. The tile was so old – 1920s plastic in black and pink held on with ancient mastic. One would pop off and out would come the rubber cement. A quick but not permanent fix…
The first and last one bring very vivid images to my head.
Thank you. For me I feel them with my hands. Cold and hot and icy and in the other one how the water feels.
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