a poem a day for a year #343

by Amy Turn Sharp


I'm just cooking chicken on the stove and the oil has made love to the onions and everything has relented and I'm thinking about you. Sometimes I can stare through walls. I have X-ray vision pretend powers. I can see you and your face is turned in my direction, illuminated by a flickering television. I massage my head a bit, poking right where Google says my frontal lobe lives. I start singing to Emily Dickinson's ghost because she said that the "brain is wider than the sky" and I untie my apron and swing my hips to the music on my radio. Emily, I know it girl. My brain is wide and full and dangerous. I hope they kept your brain up there in Amherst somewhere. Girl. Put it in a jar and it sits on a windowsill and the sun shines through it most days.