at the fork of her next uncertainty
Yesterday, for several minutes, a foam-green inchworm toured the island of a single
drop of water. Nearby, the garden's last zinnias were pretending it was still summer.
There was a toasted bagel flayed open beside the vase, its buttered ridges catching the late
morning light. It seemed as if the kitchen had briefly cleaved itself from the world,
or perhaps merely reinvented it to include only its most essential features. Whoever
the woman was who sat on the high-backed chair to witness the proceedings, she
carried, in her pockets, her fair share of dread, which might have been the reason
she spoke to the tiny creature navigating the unfamiliar tableau of the breakfast table,
why she bent close to its thin, breakable body and urged it to take care, and why later,
at the fork of her next uncertainty, she remembered its legs moving, unshakably, forward.