Bowls, Emptied

bowls

Bowls, Emptied

I picture them always separate, unfilled, never nested among the others.

In descending order: yellow, green, red. The missing blue.

Concave, hollow, hemispherical, freed of conscience.

Other images – the skies, denser with age.

You stirring with a wooden spoon, cigarette smoldering nearby.

Or the itinerant smell of new sod and wet soil.

My knee aches whenever I traverse stairs or turn quickly.

Which holds more grief, these vessels or memoryโ€™s lapse?

Inverted, their capacity remains constant as the heavens, dark or light.

The paling dome, a memory of freshly pulled onion.

Squatting, you would patiently pluck weeds.

I bite my tongue and kneel to place the flowers.

Near this stone, where the crickets chirr and dew worms burrow.

By this mound and these blades of near-silent grass.

Where I accept this momentโ€™s offering. And you do not.

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“Bowls, Emptied” first appeared on the blog in January 2016, and was subsequently published in Galway Review in December 2016.

23 thoughts on “Bowls, Emptied

  1. In their emptiness, these un-nested bowls hold the entirety of the unbound (i.e., ecstatic, absent, cosmic, infinitesimal, fleeting, enduring, ever-present) sanctity we painfully and gratefully know as grief… This transcendent, richly synesthetic triumph is rates among my all-time favorite Okaji masterpieces!

    Liked by 1 person

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