The Future Abbess Picks Spilled Lentils Off the Countertop

This love
is no excuse for clumsiness. I must
start paying better attention.

Or is it simply distraction
I’ve been craving?
No, No. Come here, damn you!
I want to make
a plain stew with onions,
a porridge with garlic –

what Esau bought
so dearly, starved & sweaty,
hot from the hunt.

But these small red lentils slip
so nimbly from between forefinger & thumb!
Good thing they don’t roll, too.
I picture bracelets, a little choker
with five decades of red.

One tells a rosary, yes?
Would drilled lentils
listen better, fall in line?

A wheel of fortune for levelers: no
matter where I stop counting – whether
I stop – the same mellifluous prayer,
half a pair of wings.
Easy does it, sister.
Don’t hold your breath.

But wait: why not
just lick my finger, forget the clumsy thumb?
Ah, I can pick up two, three,
four at once!
I point.
They stick.

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