Image courtesy of Amy Friend
Spot
Instructions: Place test on a flat surface out of your line of vision. Then, read this poem. Repeat, if you like. After three minutes have passed, then check the results of the pregnancy test.
Pirouettes begin with stillness,
a dancer's eyes on one spot
on the wall. This anchor is not
assigned. She has to guess
which lump in the paint
will help her to spin, which
crack, or seam, or light switch.
Chipped walls are the patron saint
of the lost and looking, while
St. Ceiling watches over
the anxious. Lucky clover,
medallions, the cool tile
of the bathroom floor holding
your feet. We ask them all
for help. A bathroom stall
will hide you if the world is folding
in on you, but you can't stay
there for too long. Because
you will be hungry. The Jaws
of Life are on their way,
dear. Look at your body now,
find a bruise, a scab, a place
that itches or aches. Retrace
a recent injury. Think of how
your body has teams of cells
devoted to your healing.
Whatever you are feeling
now is allowed, leaping gazelles
in the tall grass, or deer
petrified by the sudden snap
of a twig under a boot. Trap
the frantic moth that got in here
in a glass, and bring it out
to the yard. Tilt the glass. Spill
the moth into the air. You will
return to your home, go about
your evening. What do you want
for dinner tonight. Whatever sounds
delicious, make that, hash browns
and a fried egg, or a chocolate croissant.
Your neighbor will mow her lawn
and then it will get dark. Choose
a t-shirt to sleep in, watch the news,
breathe. Your breath is what to focus on.