The Luxuries

By Rebecca Frost
Minneapolis, MN



The Luxuries

I don’t take for granted

A piece of fruit to cut with a sharp knife. :II


With the flick of a switch,

electricity,

in my kitchen,

and radio!

With the flick of that same switch,
turning OFF the radio.

Relative Silence.


A digestive tract which can handle the fruit.

A sink into which the peelings fall.

Enamel - mine’s white, with rust - on cast iron into which drips

water

carrying relatively nonviolent microorganisms, into my home.

Having a home.

The wail of a siren outside mixing with clocks ticking and water

dripping - and all I have to do is listen to their music. Not run for

cover.

As water pools and swirls, spiraling downward
I get lost in its vortex and gravity;
soothed by my private trickle, public utility.


My hand holding the fruit,
uncut by violence
or handicapped by disease
Slicing through firm flesh, ripe and ready.

On a street - fewer days than more - when I can walk and have never,
personally, gotten knifed. Though some have, nearby.

Cast in a diaspora of characters on our street, so diverse, that I am
rich and more secure, by simple association. Together, we are juicy.

Verdant compost heap out back in which to put the peelings.

Rife with red worms - busily digesting, recycling the fruit.

The freedom - of attention - to notice the colors.

A patch of land,
free of mines,

in which to cast my hands,
to grow more fruit,
in which to, yes, sink, my teeth.


Participating in one relatively organic Circle
refueling my spirit, using every scrap,
including the kitchen sink.


Ironies not lost
on me and friends
to share
the chuckle or the wail,


as we slice clippings from pages

and watch our simple, unowned, unearned

Paradise

slip down the drain.