An I For An I

I think more of defiling
an abalone shell than I
do my own lungs, make sure
I scrub the pearlescent body
I claim as ashtray, wonder
why I do this, day after day,
why I play music that soothes
and hurts, how I got to this point
where I don't even know how
to discern what is what it is,
right or wrong, good or bad, why
only my left eye closes tight, oh so
tight, nearly every night,
me reaching for the drops to clear
out all the fuzzy stuff I'm not certain
I want to see anyway, why one eye
notices a blur, a flash of memory.

I move forward, turn backward,
start the oven, run the vacuum,
fold a load of laundry, eyes wide
open, mind not entirely closed.
I climb the basement stairs
wondering how this egoism
started: when, who, how.

I am here. An eye work, an ordinary
I rubbing down a chicken breast
with ginger, slathering asparagus
with olive oil, out of the corners
of my drying eyes watching the comings
and goings of the neighbors next door,
across the street, rubbing with fury
now, I am. Rubbing and basting
with everything I have in me, knowing
the night will come for me, and I,
I will pretend I am not afraid,
that I am strong, I am this woman
who watches carefully, who cooks
and doesn't let the chicken burn,
who makes sure the oven is off
before she sleeps, who says, night
after night: I can make it.