August 20, 2023 - Ellen Zhang’s “Mornings barely”

peeled open and there we were with hands

barely wide enough to scoop pomegranates

from their carved homes, doors wide open. 

It’s not enough to miss a place as much as this 

even though my feet point in the direction of home.

You tell me places are defined by the people, 

but I’ve learned to never build homes of tangibles. 

Coffee stirs, knitting about shafts of sunlight.

The sky mimics, softening through greenery. 

Lately all I think about is vibrato of stirring silverware, 

whirling blenders, gently softening butter. 

The days turn over on itself leaving space 

but everything still shifts from Sunday mornings. 

This place has a pulse, quiet our unquiet minds.  

You say heartbeats, so I picture hands sifting flour,

thick pouring batter, sprinkle of pomegranate seeds,

chocolate chips—it would close but not enough.