Linda Levitt
“Far from home”
Sometimes the light
streaming through when the gateway
to the other side fissures
seems more material
than my hands sunk in the bitter dishwater,
the music floating through the kitchen window
when the tiny Japanese girl I’ve never seen
practices scales next door. Exists in sound only.
Tap water splashes cold on porcelain
the way pipes sing?
They serenade the distance,
sing Oregon, sing Idaho, sing Wyoming.
Lovers on the open road, riding out to meet
in Coeur d’Alene. Means heart something.
They consider it halfway. Meeting you
halfway across the kitchen this morning
seemed like miles to walk that single
step into your body.
Before you leave, take this
teacup, take this koan:
What is the color of air in your palm?
The sky over Coeur d’Alene.