I open the window to let the air in.
I make the bed, hang up my dresses and
fold the shirts, put them in the drawer.
I arrange bottles on the shelves,
toothpaste, brush, a box of tissues.

I sort through poems and instructions.
I toss away brochures, newspapers, maps.
By the windowsill a mountain of books rises,
envelopes, folders. I decide which poem
to read in class... leave the rest behind.

A walk in the sun: in the meadow I
make two circles with my arms sweeping
the air to gather and keep in
my pocket for future use: the smell of
wet grass, firs, evergreens, the mist
on the mountains beyond the stones
at "the end of the world." I
read verses made of tin, cotton, ivory.

When I look at a postcard of van Gogh's
"The Sanatorium's Garden," its yellows call me to a land of
possibility: a frightening place
where poets and painters are sad, cut
their ears off, drink, sleep for many hours.
Daily I write these thoughts in a brown notebook but
the joy of writing is elusive, slippery, teasing me like
a taut wet string I can never grab a hold of
when I try to grasp it with both hands.

- Beatriz Badikian

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